


Let In Light (At Christmas Time)

by josywbu



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: 12 fluffy days of christmas, But It'll Be Okay, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark's Parents Are Dead, he's sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-09-17 17:16:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16978671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josywbu/pseuds/josywbu
Summary: Christmas is only 12 days out and while Tony plans to hide from the rest of the world like he's done for decades now, his very own Spiderling won't let him. And who knows, he just might end up enjoying the holidays after all.Written for the 12 fluffy days of Christmas challenge on tumblr.





	1. Thursday, December 13th: cold sleepy cuddles

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! I'm joining the 12 fluffy days of christmas challenge on tumblr and i'm so excited to get back into writing cavity inducing fluff to get myself in the christmas spirit!  
> Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think x

The penthouse floor is dark except for the dim floor lights when Peter swings over to the tower. Unlike every other building in the city, Stark Tower isn’t lit up like a Christmas tree, trying to outdo all the corny lights with even cheesier ones. While it’s a relief for Peter’s eyes that have been trying to ignore all the tawdry decorations that kept flashing in his peripheral view all day, it looks kind of empty and sad. It looks as if Christmas just isn’t happening here, as if the love and warmth that has taken over the city and its people stopped right before the door, leaving the building itself cold.

Speaking of cold –

Peter’s hands wrap around the balcony parapet with a little more effort than it would usually take. They’re hurting. Well, in all honesty, his whole body is hurting probably because it’s freaking cold and somehow the heater in his suit has been acting up all day and he got splashed with water by a guy trying to steal a bike which hasn’t made swinging around any warmer and – really – he just looks forward to going home and getting to bed but Mister Stark’s message sounded important.

Although his movements are a little slower, a little less graceful, there’s just no way he’s not coming when his mentor calls. He’s Spider-Man, for God’s sake, he can take the cold for a little while longer to help out someone who’s always there for him, who’s like family to him.

The balcony doors slide open the second his feet hit the ground and immediately he’s greeted with a puff of warm air that is a direct contrast to his body temperature at this point and suddenly he’s shivering uncontrollably.

“Th- Thanks, F.R.I.,” he tells the AI with a forced smile through clattering teeth and steps through, taking his mask off as he wanders around the abandoned living room.

“Mister Stark?” he calls out, tossing his mask on the coffee table and flopping himself down on the couch. It feels like the soft fabric is swallowing him up and he lets out a contented sigh at how warm the pillows feel around him. He wonders briefly if his mentor has an actual seat heater integrated into his furniture or if everything just feels extra warm because he’s so cold.

It’s like the couch hit his off-button, though, and once he is sitting his limbs feel like lead, making it impossible to move. He lets out a yawn and curls in on himself, still in his suit and all, hogging one of the big pillows as he slowly drifts off.

It’s just so warm and comfortable and _safe_.

He blinks back into consciousness when he feels someone wrapping a blanket around his shoulders and resituating him so his head is a little elevated and his neck is more comfortable. “Mis’er – Mister Stark?” he mumbles through the dizziness when he recognizes the older man’s rough fingers cupping his neck gently. “Wassup?”

In an attempt to sit up he pushes himself onto his elbows a little awkwardly but takes in a sharp breath at the loss of warmth. It takes everything in him not to whimper in relief when he’s being covered by the blanket once more.

“Lay back down, kiddo,” his mentor says, pushing him back down so his head is back to laying in his lap. The second Mister Stark starts carding his fingers through the messy flop of curls, he stops protesting and closes his eyes again.

He lets his mind wander. Maybe he could just rest for a little while before going home. Mister Stark probably wouldn’t mind, right? He could just lay here and warm up and – His thought process is interrupted when he remembers why he came over in the first place.

Instead of sitting up he just lets his eyes flutter open once more. “Whataya wanna talk about?” he wants to know curiously, “’S – ‘S a mission? Do you –“ he stifles a yawn, “Do y’need  my help? I can –”

“Relax, buddy,” he is interrupted and he’s sure Mister Stark actually sounds amused, like he’s trying not to laugh but when he continues talking his voice his gentle and there isn’t even a hint of teasing. “There’s no mission today. I called you because F.R.I.D.A.Y. told me your suit is acting up and since you didn’t seem like you would tell me, I took matters into my own hands and ordered you here.”

“Not ordered,” Peter rolls his eyes and turns his head into his mentor’s thigh so the cold tip of his nose is nuzzling the warm fabric of his sweats. “Asked me to ‘n’ I came ‘cause ‘m nice.”

“Sure are,” the man replies with a grin, “And I’m sure you’d be so nice as to leave the suit here so I can fix it so you can stop freezing to death while you go about your vigilante business.”  

If he wasn’t so comfortable, he would’ve glared at him but that would’ve meant taking his face out of the very soft and warm spot it’s currently hiding in and there are just things Peter isn’t willing to do just to be sassy. Giving up warm cuddles and hair cardings happen to be right at the top of the list.

“Sure,” he mumbles into the leg instead, “but it’s really not that bad, Mister Stark. I can get home in it.” Although, if he is being honest, he would really rather not. It’s one thing to swing through the city being cold already but going back out there after being all warmed up? That is just mean.

So he’s kind of glad when his mentor just brushes part of his fringe back and declines the offer. “Yeah, we’re not doing that. Leave the suit here and I’ll work on it tonight so you can have it back tomorrow. Tonight we’re gonna get you warmed up and then I’ll drive you home, capiche?”

“Capiche.”

They settle into a comfortable silence in which Peter lets his thoughts drift, enjoying the scalp massage.

It’s nice, just laying here and not having to worry about anything because there’s someone else worrying for him. It’s just like when he’s doing it with Aunt May while they’re watching a movie or just chatting or when they don’t talk at all – it’s safe and familiar and the best feeling in the world.

He loves that about this time of year. When everyone is slowly getting into the Christmas spirit and is more considerate of each other, gentler with each other. It’s like the kindness of the holiday spreads through the city, infecting old and young, poor and rich and makes people come together that usually wouldn’t. Love is hanging over everything and it’s incredibly easy to imagine a world at peace in December.

It’s one of the naïve thoughts from his childhood that he tries to hold on to no matter what. He tries to fill his heart with warm friendliness even when he knows there’s cold, biting hatred out there because if everyone loses hope – what’s the point anymore?

“Mister Stark?” he asks after a while and he must’ve startled the man because the hand in his hair is gone for a second. As soon as Peter huffs indignantly, though, a barely audible laugh is shaking his mentor’s body and the hand returns.

“What is it, kid?” He sounds sleepy, too. Peter wonders if he hasn’t been sleeping again and if he seems just a little bit more on edge than usual.

“Why haven’t you decorated the tower yet?”

There’s a pause and something in that pause feels heavy. Suddenly the air is a little chillier and the teenager shudders and buries himself further into his mentor’s embrace. The hand wanders from the top of his head down his neck and stops on his shoulder before settling on rubbing up and down his arms to generate warmth.

“I mean,” he starts because he really doesn’t like this kind of quiet where he feels like Mister Stark is protecting him from something that makes him sad and when he doesn’t like silence he usually fills it with rambling. “The lights everywhere are a little too much and can you imagine how much it must cost to power all of it? Of course you wouldn’t have that problem with having your own clean energy source and all but, I dunno, some of the stuff is kind of nice, don’t you think? Makes it easier to get into the Christmas spirit.”

Mister Stark barks out a laugh that doesn’t sound entirely forced and Peter takes it as a win. He turns his head so he can meet his mentor’s eyes who’s returning his grin with a small smile but his eyes aren’t twinkling down at him like they usually are. There’s something somber in them, hiding behind the wall of warmth and softness directed at Peter but it’s there and it worries him. He rarely sees the superhero like that anymore, he’s been a lot calmer and happier the past few months.

“You’re your very own special kind of Christmas spirit, you menace,” he jabs lightly, poking the teenager’s side who tries to swallow the high-pitched squeal he’s forced to let out. For a second the hand settles back on his shoulder and squeezes tightly, before going back to caressing his arm.

“The holiday kind of lost its appeal to me,” he sighs after another moment, surprising Peter who was sure that that was all he is going to get, “I just – I don’t really celebrate Christmas anymore. Haven’t had the time or a reason to celebrate it in a while. I’m usually having a relaxing two days with Pepper or Rhodey or both but nothing that would be worth putting a Christmas tree up for. Who’s gonna see it, you know?”

He isn’t sure he gets it because Christmas decorations are a Parker principle that is not allowed to be skipped. No matter how awful the past year has been, there’s always a brightly shining tree in their small apartment, telling stories of love and hope and it’s-gonna-get-better-next-year and we-still-have-each-other. They didn’t even break with tradition the year Uncle Ben died and it was oddly comforting to remember him in a setting full of love instead of the cold, grey graveyard they usually visit. He knows, though, that there’s a deeper problem than Mr. Stark not having the time to celebrate the holiday and so he doesn’t push. Not today.

Instead he smiles up at the man innocently through his eyelashes, “But you’re making time for Christmas dinner at our place, right? Aunt May told me to invite Miss Potts and you and you know she doesn’t take no for an answer.”

Mr. Stark laughs again, a little louder, a little more freely. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to get on your aunt’s bad side on Christmas. We’ll be there.”

“Thank you.”                                        

And it’s not just for coming to their Christmas dinner. It’s not even just for getting him warm and driving him home. It’s kind of for everything he can’t figure out how to put into words yet. It’s a thank you for being there and caring and while he knows that Mr. Stark can read between the lines and figure out just how deep his thankfulness runs, he makes a silent promise to tell him, somehow.

“You’re welcome, kid. Come on, let’s get you home.”


	2. Friday, December 14th: blanket forts

Tony is elbow deep in rewiring one of his older suits when F.R.I.D.A.Y. announces Peter’s arrival and for the fraction of a second he just stops.

He’s tired. The I’m-insomnia’s-bitch kind of tired. The tired where he hasn’t had more than three hours of sleep a night for almost four days in a row and the few hours he did get were laced with different version of the same old stories over and over and over again.

Dark caves, people shouting in foreign languages. Fear, pain, cold.  

Bunkers in the middle of nowhere, a tiny screen in a dark room. Screams, blood, death.

Pepper falling. Rhodey falling. A shield shoved into his sternum. Darkness, cold – _so much cold._

A sassy teenager, in over his head, fighting fights he shouldn’t be fighting. He’s falling, drowning, suffocating and Tony can’t –

“Hey Mister Stark!”

The billionaire blinks down at his hands that are still stuck in his armor, clenched around one of its powering units, and with a very deliberate exhale he forces his body to relax and his fists to open. It’s hard but he does it and through sheer will power alone manages to crack a smile along the way. It’s not a good one. Peter can see right through it but he’s trying, that’s what counts, right?

“Hey kid,” he greets him, making a conscious effort to keep his voice just a little more cheerful than he actually feels without sounding over the top. “How’s school?”

Of course it’s not working. The kid’s a genius and aside from being very empathetic to his surroundings he also knows Tony. He knows Tony’s moods and he knows what it looks like when he’s pretending to be okay. And Tony hates it. He hates that Peter knows how messed up he is and he hates how he sees him using Tony’s own coping mechanisms and he just can’t have that, he won’t allow it.

What he hates most, though, is that Peter just won’t turn away like everyone else did. Peter refuses to give up on him and while it’s nice to have someone around, sometimes the trust the kid puts in him makes him feel lightheaded and trapped and lost and oh-so-scared. The thought of disappointing him is too much to bear on a good day and today is not a good day. Today is two days away from the worst day and he doesn’t know if he can handle the pressure.

He doesn’t want to flip and have Peter suffer from the consequences. Maybe he should tell him to go home, maybe he should call raincheck and postpone to – sometime after Christmas, when he’s got some strength back because right now? Right now he’s a mess and Peter deserves so much more – a mentally stable mentor, a nice fun evening with his friends, lightness.

Ultimately, Peter deserves light and Tony’s soul has been in the shadows so long he has forgotten what it looks like. Sometimes just looking at it makes him feel like he’s going blind.

When he focuses on his breathing to keep himself from spiraling, he realizes that Peter has already flung his backpack into the corner next to his desk and himself on the spinning chair and is now talking animatedly about his day. Tony makes a mental note to listen to F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s recording later on in case he missed something important but right now, despite the gloomy knot in his chest, he feels the corner of his lips twist upwards at the sight of the teenager gracelessly hanging from the chair.

With the next inhale something warm fills his chest, gentling pulling on the untethered strings until the tangle loosens and suddenly breathing isn’t as hard anymore.

It’s still not easy, there’s still too much baggage for the breaths to come out effortlessly. Too many scars, too many memories, too much loss. But it’s easier. As if Peter’s presence in itself widens his bronchia and helps the air pave a way.

“Got homework?” he finds himself asking, the tiny smile still on his lips when the teenager dutifully bobs his head up and down. “When’s May gonna be home? Are you staying for dinner?”

Just like that the offer stands in the room, without a second thought, and he realizes that he doesn’t regret making it. It’s been lonely in the Tower without Pepper and Peter – Peter is _Peter_ and taking care of him, making sure that he eats, sleeps and drinks enough has become an integral part of his DNA at this point.

“May’s working night,” Peter tells him with a pout, fidgeting until he’s sitting cross- legged on the chair, “But she’s not working all weekend and we’re having brunch tomorrow when she’s up again.”

“So, that means you want to stay the night and catch breakfast here, too?”

“I mean –“ For a second Tony thinks the kid is too polite to invite himself over but then a shit-eating grin spreads on his face as he turns on his swivel chair. “Yep. That was pretty much the plan. Hope I’m not keeping you from important – you know – stuff.”

_Just from another lonely night spent staring at the alcohol cabinet._ He doesn’t say, though, because he doesn’t drink and he hasn’t for months, still, the reflex never really left.

Instead he scoffs, “Me? Doing something important? In your dreams.” Peter giggles.

It’s still fake and he’s still not fine but when he turns back to the armor again as Peter starts taking out his books to work on his homework, he feels a lot lighter than he has in days.

They work on their own for a while after that and it doesn’t take long for Tony to get immersed in the inner workings of the suit once more. But while his mind is running difficult algorithms, trying to figure out how to best deweaponize it for a presentation without giving up too much of its soul, he’s always acutely aware of Peter’s movements behind him, like a sixth sense that comes to him easier than breathing most days.

“Pete,” he turns around with a frown after giving the boy another ten minutes of fidgeting, “what’s up? Do you need help?”

“Wha –?” The kid looks startled but shakes his head. “No. I was just,” he points to a pile at the foot of the couch in the far corner of the room, “I was wondering what that is.”

Tony can see the books that lay untouched on the desk with his pencil case emptied out and its content scattered all over the place and he sees the hole Peter is currently poking in the sleeve of his hoodie and he understands the restlessness behind it.

It’s a curse. One he has had to deal with all his life and one he wish he could take from the kid but as it is he can only try to get that genius mind of his to focus on something or else the jiggling would get worse and he’d probably end up hurting himself.

“What’s it look like?” he asks, feeling his whole demeanor change now that he is needed. Now that his purpose is making Peter feel better. Superficially cleaning his oil stained hands on a more-black-than-not towel he wanders over to the teen and settles on the couch, inviting him to inspect the pile with a nod of his head.

Peter, god bless him, jumps at the opportunity and almost trips from his chair with his limbs flailing in the air for a second before he manages to catch himself with a splutter, diving headfirst into the soft pile.

Normally, Peter would dissect any abnormality, anything new, with immaculate care but now he’s tearing through all blankets and pillows and comforters like a mad man on a mission. Only when he’s gone through them all he stops. Sitting in the middle of the mess he created he cocks his head to the side, leaning back on his arms with his legs stretched out in front of him.

He’s wearing his thinking frown and Tony watches as his mind works with new information, needing just a little bit longer than usual to figure it out. “They’re blankets,” he summarizes then, with a smile so warm Tony swears it could singlehandedly cause global warming and melt all remaining ice on the planet, even the one stuck in his heart. “You got blankets ‘cause I get cold easily, didn’t you?”

Of course he did. Of fucking course he got his kid blankets so he wouldn’t be cold in winter. It cost him one voice command and the boy is looking up at him as if he has just hung the moon in the sky specifically for him.

The look made him feel fuzzy. A good kind of fuzzy that he never got from alcohol anymore, and probably never really had.

“Of course I did,” he tells him when his emotions come too close to surfacing and he has to swallow past the growing lump in his throat. “Wanna cuddle up until I’m done working?”

Just like that, it looks as if Peter’s strings have been cut and he sags in on himself a little. “Um – yeah, sure,” he mumbles, hands running over the fabric of a dark blue blanket and clenching around it, “I mean, I could maybe work on my homework a little bit ya know. So, uh, so I get something done.” He trails off, shoulders and head hanging low as he attempts to get to his feet again.

Tony frowns. “No, why would you-?“ Oh.

_My dad never really gave me a lot of support. I’m trying to break the cycle of shame._

 “Or,” he tries a different approach, not missing how Peter is perching up just that tiny little bit at his softer tone of voice, “Or we could both take a break and relax a little. What do you say?”

He can see that it’s on the tip of his tongue to decline but apparently all their talking the past few months about accepting what Tony offers has gotten them somewhere and in the end Peter simply nods, a happy grin spreading on his face once more as if he just flipped a switch.

“Can we build a blanket fort?”

And – what?

“I have never once in my life built a blanket fort.”

And, yeah, maybe he should’ve seen it coming but he hasn’t and it might just cost him his hearing.

“WHAT THE –“

“Do not finish that sentence.”

As always his words fall on deaf ears.

“- HECK, MISTER STARK!” Peter all but shouts from two feet away, staring at him with wide, accusing eyes. “You can’t be serious! No way, you’ve never built a blanket fort!”  

“Yes way,” he gives back, swallowing the biting bile as he tries to be supportive and nice and all that shit good mentors apparently do. How on earth where there people having and raising kids full time out of their own free will? “And I am _not_ going to start now.”

“Oh come on, please!”

Ah, yeah, that answers is questions. It’s definitely the disarming puppy eyes. And possible the shear endless amount of full body hugs.

“Fine,” he relents contritely, “But if we’re gonna do this we’re gonna do this right, understand? The full ten yards and then some.”

“Aye, sir!”

Peter is jumping up and down and he looks so much more at ease than just ten minutes ago and that’s worth all the back pain Tony is going to get from that experience. Damn kids.

It ends up taking them two hours to finish but by the time they do the ceiling of their fort is fitted with two chains of light, giving the arrangement a somewhat mystical touch to it.

They’re both lying on their backs, heads resting on their respective pillows while a fortress of other pillows is stacked around them, effectively shielding them from the outside world (the lab) and keeping them in their very own cocoon except for the small opening they made for food supply and such.

Dum-E has done a great job providing them with snacks and drinks albeit Tony vetoed the kid’s wishes for hot chocolate.

Peter has already forgotten he was sulking, though, and just stares up at the lights in wonder and, as Tony notes in satisfaction, otherwise perfectly still.

“This is what I’ve always imagined stargazing must be like,” he whispers, voice so quiet and in awe that Tony barely catches it.

It hits him again how different their upbringings have been and how he’s going to make sure that he only ever passes on the good things if he can help it.

“I’ll take you stargazing one of these days,” he promises, voice soft as to not startle the peaceful boy.

The teenager turns his head to meet his eyes, unruly curls falling over his left eye that Tony itches to push them back. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he says, reaching out to brush the curl away gently.

He promises him a lot more in his head but he doesn’t know how to form the words to let him know, yet. He hopes Peter understands anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Tell me what you think x


	3. Saturday, December 15th: hot cocoa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this one keep in mind that it's written from Peter's POV ('cause I'm switching every chapter cause it's fun!) and that there's obviously stuff going on in Tony's mind that makes him act the way he does and that I don't explicitly write his thought process. Hope it makes sense anyway! Tell me what you think of me switching between POVs in this story :) And, of course, enjoy x

“Mister Stark, Mister Stark, Mister Stark! Did you see how I got that last one?”

Peter is buzzing with energy, grinning widely down at his mentor as he continues to crawl along the wall to collect the last of seven drones he webbed up in the last hour.

The man in question is sitting on the floor cross-legged, back propped up against the wall with a small grin on his face and remote control for the drones in hand. He looks more relaxed than he did yesterday but Peter doubts he actually got a lot of sleep last night after he nagged him to go to bed at around midnight. At least Peter’s presence makes sure he at least got breakfast.

Still, he smiles warmly and the teenager feels pride swell in his chest. _Small victories_ , he tells himself.

“Sure did, kiddo, but I’m guessing you’re gonna tell me all about it anyway.”

He is absolutely right of course.

The teenager dissects every little detail of the morning routine the whole way through cleaning up the obstacle course they built after breakfast. He talks about how cool the flips were that he tried out for the first time today and how that one drone was coming straight for his head but upon seeing a flash of it in his peripheral view he just summersaulted and shot out a web and –

“Mister Stark, it was like – like I was flying! I swear, flying is the best thing in the world!”

“Oh really,” Mister Stark sounds amused when he pulls him into his side as they make their way to the kitchen. “I thought the best thing in the world were blanket forts. Oh, and I think last week you said the best thing in the world is pizza and the week before that –“

Peter rolls his eyes and bumps his shoulder into his mentor’s. “You’re a killjoy, ya know? Let a man enjoy the beauty of the world.”

His mentors snorts. “Man? Are you referring to yourself? I think I would’ve noticed that, squirt.”

He quips back easily and when they’ve reached the kitchen he slumps down on one of the chairs with a relaxed grin and leans forward to rest most of his upper body on the counter while the billionaire goes to prepare an after-work-out snack like usual. Chin resting on the back of his hand that’s lying flat on the cool surface he watches him pull out utensils and ingredients with ease and a familiar domesticity.

It’s normal - part of their routine at this point - that Mister Stark makes him a healthy snack to replenish all the calories he burnt swinging through the training facility and makes him drink tons of water to keep him hydrated. It’s actually kind of sweet how much of a mother hen he becomes after training. Not that he’d ever admit to it.

“Uh! Mister Stark,” he perks up when the superhero puts down his scrambled eggs, avocado toast and glass of water in front of him, “Can we make hot chocolate, too?” He takes a big bite of the toast and keeps talking, “Ya know, so I don’t accidentally go into hypoglycemic shock again?”

He shrugs nonchalantly at the eye-rolled glare directed at him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be having brunch with your aunt later?”

“So?”

“Right, human trash can, I forgot.” His voice is flatter than it was before and Peter frowns inwardly at the change in tone. 

He covers it up, sticks out his tongue at his mentor and just continues eating. “Aunt May will be asleep till at least 2pm and you know my metabolism… I need to eat.” Feeling like he might need to bring out the big guns for this conversation he pouts and flutters his eyelashes expertly. “Please. I mean, it’s _Christmas_! If you don’t drink hot chocolate now when are you gonna?”

“How about never? I told you how I feel about Christmas.”

The teenager knits his brows together at the dismissive manner that is so foreign directed at him. “Yeah, but I don’t get what your problem with hot chocolate is. You love chocolate!” He narrows his eyes at the billionaire whose shoulders are tense again. “You’d eat chocolate with everything if Pepper let you.”

“I just,” Mister Stark starts and now that Peter is paying attention he sees how he’s avoiding meeting his eyes, something Mister Stark _never_ does with him. They dart around the room as if their looking for a way out, his left hand is clenched tightly around his green smoothie and he can hear his heart beat speed up.

“Really, hot chocolate is just too much of a good thing. I mean whipped cream and chocolate? You drink more than one and you’re practically begging fate to get you a brand new type two diabetes,” he snaps but the harshness can fully cover up how his voice gets a , “Can we – Can we just not talk about hot chocolate anymore? Stay healthy, drink a smoothie.”

Peter knows the signs of an incoming anxiety attack when he sees them and he knows that he should probably do as he is told and let it go but his mentor’s eyes look downright _haunted_ and seeing him this shaken calls to a protective instinct deep in his core. There has to be _something_ he can do.

“I think we should talk about it, actually,” he says carefully, voice even and calm, and puts his cutlery to the side. Slowly he turns so he’s looking directly at Mister Stark who looks more than a little bewildered. He’s not sure how to best go about it but, well, he’s already climbed up the ladder. He might as well jump the spring board now.

“I know, it’s not really my place and maybe you don’t want to talk about it with _me_ but I think you should talk about it to someone. I don’t want to see you so –“ Sad. Lost. Broken. “And – and I know that you and Aunt May always make _me_ talk about stuff and, even though I hate it in the beginning, I usually feel better afterwards.”

He can see in the billionaire’s eyes how he’s starting to shut him out, how he’s preparing to put the mask back on he usually takes off around Peter and he can’t have that. So, he takes in a deep, panicked breath and tags on: “I – I know it’s probably because of your parents and- and,” he stutters because Mister Stark’s eyes are wide and his heart is beating so fast and Peter’s own heart is beating so so fast, too, and what the hell was he thinking?

“I just –“ he soldiers on anyway, “it’s okay to be sad, I _know_ what that feels like but I don’t believe you when you say that you don’t like hot chocolate and I think – I think that – whatever is cause it – that’s something you should talk about. So..” He trails off, unsure of – well, everything at this point.

“Sorry, I know it’s not my place,” he whispers and now he’s the one avoiding looking at the other man who’s completely rigid with his eyes screwed shut tightly and arms crossed in front of his chest.

What if he just made it worse? What if Mister Stark really doesn’t want to talk about it? What if he just really messed up and he’s going to throw him out? What if –

“You’re so much stronger than I ever could be, kid. Oh, and smarter. Can’t forget smarter.”

Peter’s head snaps up at the words spoken so softly he isn’t sure he would’ve heard them without enhancement. His mentor’s eyes are still closed, albeit his stance is a little more relaxed. Forced relaxed, probably, because his heart hasn’t really calmed down and he’s straining his lungs, trying to even out his breathing. But his hands are resting on his thighs lightly and he’s making an effort to loosen the tension in his shoulders.

He’s about to disagree, to tell him that he’s not strong, not really, but before he can open his mouth Mister Stark is talking again.

“My mum and I used to make hot chocolate for Christmas every year.”

The admission hangs over them like a thick fog, raw and cold with loss and heavy with the trust that it must’ve cost to say.

_And when those blue snowflakes start falling that's when those blue memories start calling_

Peter isn’t sure why the song pops in his head like a weirdly prophetic background music supposed to lessen the weight of their situation. He keeps looking at his mentor, who is finally meeting his eyes again, posture unnaturally still.

“It was our thing,” he says after a pause, “we would make it every Christmas Eve without fail and it was the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had but it was more because –“

“Because she was the one making it with you,” Peter adds quietly when it’s clear that Mister Stark won’t finish the sentence. “And making hot chocolate without her is just not the same.”

He nods sadly and it’s quiet again until… Until suddenly his whole demeanor changes in the time it takes Peter to blink and he raps on the table twice, like a switch flipped. “But that should not keep us from making you the damned best hot chocolate we can. Come on. Chop chop.”

Just like that, Mister Stark is back to being vibrant and flitting around the kitchen like a man on a mission but it only intensifies the lump in Peter’s throat when he watches him pull out all ingredients from the shelves.

“Milk – check, dark chocolate – check, heavy cre –“

“You don’t have to do this,” the interrupts his mentor, “You really don’t.”

Mister Stark turns around, whole body facing the teenager, heavy cream still in hand, and his gaze softens. “I want to, Pete.” He waits a beat in which Peter tries his best to read the enigma that is Tony Stark. “So, are you going to help me or are you just going to keep standing there like a lost puppy?”

“Well,” he recovers finally and moves forward to take the cream from the man with a grin, “someone’s gotta watch out so you don’t end up burning down the kitchen, _again_.”

It’s weird at first.

Usually when they work together they act like a well- oiled machine, pieces fitting together seamlessly but now the kitchen feels too small for both of them and they trip over each other every other minute.

Peter is reaching out to put the whisk away and accidentally bumps into Mister Stark who’s mixing the corn starch with the milk powder and the bowl tips over with a sad _thump,_ blend spilling all over the countertop. Mister Stark picks it up first but he’s trembling and the dish keeps clonking against the hard surface of the countertop.

After an awkward moment the teenager reaches out to take the now empty bowl from his mentor’s shaking hands and gives him an apologetic smile. “You okay?”

The hands clench to fists and he breathes out deliberately before he nods, turning the corners of his lips up in a tentative smile of his own. “Yeah, I’m good. Can you start boiling the milk – 3 cups – while I clean up your mess? I’ll get more starch and milk powder.”

Peter nods and moves over to the stove to do as he’s told, already picking up the milk and a cup to measure it. “Do you want me to chop the chocolate, too?”

They don’t talk very much except to give and take orders and exchange suggestions for the recipe, still, as time goes on they discover their rhythm, a slightly new one, and when it’s time to add the whipped cream to the cup Mister Stark is close enough to his usual self to adorn Peter’s nose with a blob of the white paste with a cheeky grin.

He giggles, going cross-eyed trying to make out the extent of the mess. “For that I’m getting some of your hot chocolate,” he declares firmly.

“Whatever squirt,” Mister Stark shakes his hand fondly, “Just get over to the couch and try not to make too much of a mess. We still gotta get you back to your aunt in time for brunch.”

_But I'll have a blue, blue blue blue Christmas_

Elvis is back but, as he watches his mentor hesitantly sip his hot chocolate over the rim of his own glass, Peter is starting to contemplate that, maybe, there’s still time to save Christmas.

They already worked through the hot chocolate trauma in a morning’s work. Just give him a couple more days. He’ll figure it out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this centers more around Tony missing his mom than Howard Stark's A+ parenting. Enjoy x

When his phone rings he considers, for at least two heartbeats, ignoring the call. It’s F.R.I.D.A.Y. who ends up answering the phone for him with only a slightly judgmental jab in his direction. Most of all his A.I. sounds worried, though, and maybe a little helpless. He should stop trying to program himself friends, he thinks, they’re still just ones and zeros not people.

It hits him how much he misses J.A.R.V.I.S. and the thought makes his mind spin more and more and more until it stumbles and screeches to a halt at Pepper’s voice.

“Tony? Are you there?” Her concerned voice echoes through the speakers in the cold lab and he’s not sure how he feels about it. He’s not sure whether he wants to be alone or wants to be held, whether he wants to break down or soldier on.

He’s tired of existing. Just tired.

“Physically?” he asks, trying to gather even an ounce of normalcy in his voice, “I’d say that’s an affirmative.”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line and he hears shuffling. She’s probably in her hotel room, getting ready for bed since it’s night on her side of the world.

Tony pictures her with her back propped up against the headboard, dressed in one of his shirts that hangs loosely around her shoulders, hair hanging loosely around her make-up-free face. When he concentrates he swears he can smell the faint smell of her moisturizer.

“How are you doing?”

He thinks about the question for a bit.

He has slept a total of two hours last night and has been up since 6, trying to get some work done in the lab, which he hasn’t. Instead he has been sitting in the same spot for almost three hours now, mind going in circles, heart beating too fast, throat a little too tight and his thoughts have wandered to the inconspicuous cabinet in the living room a little too often.

“I’ve been better, I’ve been worse,” he ends up saying, leaning back until he’s lying down flat on one of Peter’s blankets that the boy has taken to wrapping around his body whenever he has been in the lab for the past two days. Eyes closed, he tries to focus on how the soft fibers feel on his rough hands because focusing on that pushes his self-destructive needs a little further out of reach. It might just be far enough.

“Maybe this was a bad idea. Do you want me to come back? I can get the –“

“Pepper,” he interrupts her gently, “don’t. It’s okay. I’ll be okay. I mean –“ He screwes his eyes shut and scrunches his nose when he feels the telling tickle in the tip of it. He is _not_ going to cry. “I shouldn’t be such a baby about this.”

_Stark men are made of iron._

He’s weak. He has always been weak. A shame to the Stark name. A failure. A misstep. A diss-

“You’re not being a baby about anything, you’re grieving. You’re allowed to grieve.” When Pepper says it, he’s almost inclined to believe her, simply because she’s the smartest woman he knows and she’s usually right about everything. Still, she doesn’t get it either.

“I’ve been grieving for almost thirty years,” he snaps, wincing inwardly at how harsh his voice comes out but too messed up to take it back, “I should be over it. It’s – it’s been ages, Pep, why does – why does it still _hurt_ so much?” At the end of the sentence is voice isn’t much more than a whisper until it breaks and deafening silence takes its place.

_Stop crying, Anthony, it was just a stupid bot. It wasn’t even smart, just a dummy. No one is going to miss it._

Once again Pepper is his lifeline in a hopeless situation, pulling him from the deadly vortex that is the darkness of his mind with a few well-placed words.

“You haven’t ever really dealt with your grief, Tony,” she tells him. “You’ll get through this, you’re strong and once you’ve made? You’ll be that much stronger.”

And, rationally, he knows that he’ll probably survive this, he does, but feeling like this makes him wish that he could continue not dealing with it for the rest of his life. It _hurts_. Whatever Pepper says, he’s not strong and he won’t ever get through this. How could he when his heart feels like a single open wound that just keeps getting infected?

“Do you want me to come home?”

Tony shakes his head. He regrets the motion as soon as his head starts spinning and when he opens his eyes his vision is blurry. Huh, seems like he’s crying after all.

“Tony?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, “no. Finish your trip and then come home. I’ll – I will be fine.” Somehow.

There’s a pause and he wonders whether she is going to hop into the private airplane to come back anyway. It’s something he would do in her position. But Pepper isn’t as impulsive and she trusts him a lot more than he does himself. So she just sighs an okay and it goes quiet between them, her even breathing the only sign that the call is still connected.

It’s calmingly familiar and he matches his breathing to hers until their in synch. He feels a little less alone, a little more hopeful that he just might make it through the day after all. 

“I’ve heard Peter made you make him hot chocolate,” says Pepper eventually, her voice cutting through the silence gently.

(He knows what she’s trying to do. He plays along anyway.)

“Wha –“ Tony sits up, eyes wide, looking scandalized and it’s a welcome change to the painful lethargy he has been feeling all day, “The menace told you about that?”

“Oh, he told me alright. He sent me pictures, too,” she teases, her grin evident in her tired voice, “Think I can get one for Christmas, too?”

_I’m here, it’s going to be okay._

“Traitor,” he mumbles but it’s missing any real heat. The thought of Peter and Pepper and hot chocolate on Christmas Eve makes his heart melt and his head light. “But I think we can have that arranged.”

_I know. I love you._

“When’s he coming over again?”

A genuine smile spreads on his lips, faint as it may be. “Wednesday, probably. Still gotta talk to May about presents. Oh, by the way, we’re going to Queens on Christmas Day, May’s cooking.”

Pepper laughs and Tony feels a weight being lifted from his chest as they continue to chat. Breathing becomes easier.

_Thankyouthankyouthankyou_

* * *

 

A knock on the door of his lab pulls him out of his thoughts.

Tony groans when he moves his head, joints cracking and creaking from spending too long sitting at his desk, hunched over blueprints that have long since become nothing more than a blurry mess of blue and white in front of his eyes. He’s dead on his feet at this point and the calm he has felt after talking to Pepper has evaporated somewhere during the third hour.

He’s desperately craving a drink and the only reason he hasn’t gotten one yet is probably due to the fact that he just refuses to get up in general. Not for food, not for tools, not for drinks, not for anything. It might seem a little radical but he doesn’t trust himself. If he’s too weak to move, he’s too weak to get drunk. Easy logic, nice plan.

What is, however, not part of his plan is the bright, teenaged Spiderling waving at him through the glass panel with a smile too big for Tony’s migraine.

The billionaire cocks his head to the side as he looks at his mentee, thoughts a little sluggish and slow.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” he asks, “Is Peter outside the lab?”

In the time his A.I. needs to answer, he has almost convinced himself that the teenager he’s seeing is nothing more than a figment of his imagination. When she confirms it, a little belatedly, that just confuses him more.

“Why is he knocking? Has he forgotten his PIN?” he wants to know, eyes never leaving the kid who’s bouncing on the balls of his feet as energetic as usual. A thought hits him and makes him sit up straighter. “Is he hurt?”

“My preliminary checks have shown no signs of outer injuries.” A pause. “Mister Parker would also like me to inform you that he has not forgotten his PIN but, I quote, is just being nice by not bursting in.”

Good. That’s good. That’s at least enough to not fall into panic quite yet. Would’ve been a shame, after he made it to almost 4 pm without falling apart.

Peter knocks again, inexplicably still smiling, and, upon not coming up with a good enough reason to decline he tells F.R.I.D.A.Y. to open the door to let him in.

The second the kid has moved over the doorstep he realizes that that was probably only half of the reason. The other half of the reason, the more important part of why Peter Parker is in his workshop today of all days, is that Tony genuinely enjoys his company. It calms him, gives him something to focus on that is not his own anxiety.

He’s still tired, though, and still sad and angry and he’s still craving a drink. With Peter here, though, other emotions rise to the top – worry and fear. Worry about the kid’s wellbeing and fear for pushing him away when he’s like this. Peter knows him, knows more than one part of him, sure, but he’s never seen him on the 16th and he can’t help the part of him that is screaming at him to get as far away from the kid as possible.

As happens so very often when the teenager is concerned, though, the urge to protect and take care cancels out his self-doubt.

“What are you doing here, kid?” he asks him when Peter’s comes to a stand a few feet away from him, giving him an once-over.

Tony can only imagine what he must look like right now. Hair unkempt, clothes rumpled and backs under his, probably puffy, eyes.

Somehow the kid looks past all that and smiles at him, that shy tentative Peter Parker smile that he loves so much. “Uh, I wanted to, uh, to ask you, uh, if – if you want to have a snowball fight.”

The billionaire blinks.

Once, twice, three times. Then he rubs his eyes, shakes his head and gives himself a pinch in the bicep. When he opens his eyes again, Peter is still standing there in front of him, patiently waiting for an answer.

“There’s no snow outside,” he states finally because he’s not sure what else he’s supposed to say. He’s not working on full capacity and if the request was a weird new code for something else than he doesn’t get it.

“I, uh, I know that,” Peter acknowledges with a timid nod, hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his favorite hoodie, a behavior he usually exhibits when he’s nervous. “But, see, it was _supposed_ to snow last night, ya know?”

He heard that forecast but he’s still no closer to figuring out where the hell Peter is going with this and his head is starting to throb again. “So?” he probes, rubbing his temple with firm, cold fingers, trying to sound as calmly and patiently as possible.

Apparently he does miss some kind of code that the kid wants him to get because he sighs and his shoulders slump slightly. “I, uh,” he sighs as he tries to explain, “I thought you could use the distraction because you seemed a little, uh, a little off the past few days and I thought a snowball fight would be perfect to take your mind of – well, everything, I guess. And then it _didn’t_ snow like it was supposed to and I still wanted to help but I didn’t know how and, uh, I might’ve panicked but – uh, yeah, I think I just wanted to say that I’m here if you need a distraction from,” he waves his hand in the air, “this.”

As if that just clears up anything at all.

“Did Pepper set you up to this,” he frowns, “Because you really don’t have to be here. You said you wanted to spend the weekend with May.” _Please stay._

The kid looks adorably affronted at the suggestion, making the tiniest of smiles curl on Tony’s lips that he tries to bite back. “No, she didn’t. I’m here because I want to be here and Aunt May is having friends over so, really, you’d be doing _me_ a favor if you took me in until they’re gone.”

He’s gotta hand it to the kid – he’s smart. He knows exactly which buttons to push to make it look as if he’s actually the one needing Tony because he has realized early on that Tony Stark does everything in his power not to accept the help he’s being offered. This way? Tony’s helping Peter and there’s nothing that could ever keep him from helping out his kid. Not grief, not insomnia, not even his own messed up mind.

He’s still pressing index and middle finger of his left hand to his left temple because even though Peter’s here and he feels his mind and body slowly relax at the concept of not being alone, his head still feels like it’s going to crack open any second.

“So,” he says, grimacing slightly at the pain that shoots through the side of his head at the movement, “Think we can find a way to have a snowball fight without snow?”

Peter’s answering grin lights up the whole room and his words render Tony speechless. “Of course we can. You’re Tony Stark, there’s nothing you can’t do.”

* * *

 

Their constructed arena is pretty damn improvised.

They empty out one of the gyms and install a simplified obstacle course that leaves plenty of options to hide behind and sneak up on each other. There are a few open spaces, every hard surface is equipped with bumpers to cushion potential falls and run-ins and the softballs that are going to be serving as their missiles are neatly stacked on either side of the room.

It looks like a very unceremonious laser tag hall but it should serve its purpose.

They’re both standing in the doorway, admiring their handiwork. Well, Peter is admiring their work and Tony is looking for things he might’ve missed that he can improve but he keeps getting distracted by the sheer happiness in the kid’s eyes. It’s enough to dim down his headache into something more bearable.

That’s when it hits him what’s been missing and despite how awful this day has started out, he starts grinning. “You know what would make this even more awesome?”

“There’s literally nothing more awesome than this, Mister Stark,” the teenager tells him matter-of-factly because that’s just how damn pure he is and it only makes the hole in Tony’s heart ache a little bit more, a good pain. An ‘ _I’m sad but I’m not alone so I might going to be okay_ ’ kind of pain that hurts so bittersweetly because he’s leaving something in his past to embrace his future.

“Not even,” he stops for a dramatic pause and drops his voice to a whisper as if he’s letting him in on a life-changing secret, “snow?”

His eyes turn impossibly bigger until Tony is sure if they widened anymore they would definitely pop out of his head.

“I might have something lying around that could be used as artificial snow.”

“You have _what_?” He all but yells, “w _hy_?!”

“Kind of a long story,” the billionaire waves off, “Come on, let’s get the snow so I can start destroying you in it.”

“Oh, you’re _on_.”

* * *

 

They end up playing for two hours.

Two hours in which Peter is using every trick up his enhanced sleeve to get the better of his mentor who, in turn turns to F.R.I.D.A.Y. more often than not to make it more difficult for the teenage superhero to crawl up the walls and to prove that he has a few tricks up his genius sleeves, too.

Two hours of running around and making a mess and tripping on the slippery floor and throwing insults at each other.

Two hours in which Tony’s heart is _light_ with the absolute certainty that his kid is having a good time and there’s simply no room for sadness. 

Two hours in which Tony doesn’t think about his mother once.

Two hours that end up making him laugh harder and louder than he has in weeks – full body-shaking laughter where he has to bend forward, hands resting on his knees to catch his breath because Peter is so unbelievable pure even in his attempt at mockery.

He has to agree with Peter, this truly is the most awesome thing in the entire galaxy and when the kid slumps into his side tiredly after all is said and done and just curls up, head resting on his shoulder, the only emotion Tony is able to discern from the mess of hysterical goo in his chest is fondness.

Oh, and love. Unconditional, cavity-inducingly sweet love for the teenager in his arms. It’s so colossally powerful and raw that it leaves him speechless not because he didn’t know before but because he has had no idea of the magnitude of the feeling before.

So he does what his dad never did and tells Peter.

A little breathless, a little awkward, a little emotionally stunted but honest and sincere and he hopes the teenager understands what it means.

“I love you, too, Mister Stark,” the kid mumbles into his side drowsily, “I think your parents would be proud of you, you know? You’re doing a pretty good job taking care of me.”

_Oh Peter._

God damn Peter freaking Parker, and his ability to leave Tony speechless.

“Oh yeah?” he croaks out, “Thank you. I’m very proud of you, too.” And then, because it feels right to share and because it’s the truth, he adds, “My mum would have loved you.”

“I know,” he hears him grin, “’S ‘cause ‘m awesome.”

_You really are, kid._


	5. Monday, December 17th: hugs to block out the cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I learned that Christmas markets originated in Germany which is great but then my research made me realize that I have no clue what Christmas markets elsewhere look like, so take this with a grain of salt if you actually know what Christmas markets in the U.S. look like. Or let me know, I'd love to hear it!   
> Anyway, enjoy this x

_Sleigh bells ring, are you listening, in the lane, snow is glistening, a beaut –_

Mister Stark picks up on the fifth ring.

“I’m sorry, did you really change your ring tone to the Michel Bublé version of Winter Wonderland after I told you repeatedly that I do not like Christmas?”

Peter snickers, shrugging at Aunt May who’s sending him the most unimpressed look she can muster up, complete with arms folded across her chest. Her stance is gentle, though, caring and supportive. “To be fair, I still don’t think it’s Christmas you hate. But you’d have to talk to your therapist about your issues, honestly.”

He’s so excited his voice is tripping over the words and his face is downright hurting from the grin that hasn’t left it for the past ten minutes. He feels so good it almost makes him feel weird, out of place somehow, but he’s trying not to worry about it too much.

Mister Stark is quiet for a bit and Peter picks up shuffling, Dum-E’s faint whirring and then the _clonk_ of a heavy object hitting the floor.

“Ah, crap, uh,” he hears his mentor curse, “Sorry, Pete. Is there a point to this call? Do you need anything? Are you hurt? Is your aunt okay?”

That elicits a smile from said aunt who leans forward, chin resting on the top of Peter’s head who’s still holding the phone. He relaxes a little when she enters his personal space, warmth spreading through his body from the contact.

“We’re both fine, Tony, thanks for asking,” she responds. Her hands start absentmindedly rubbing gentle circles into his shoulder blades and the teenager leans back to rest against her, enjoying the sweet ministrations. He focusses on it and not on how his heart his anxiously fluttering in his chest.

What if he hates the idea?

Mister Stark sounds genuinely happy when he answers and both adults go off into a weird kind of parent talk that Peter doesn’t really get. He tries to follow their chatting anyway.

Like most of their conversations it centers on him. How’s school? Decathlon? Is he sleeping? Eating? Meeting with Ned? Every so often, though, there’s a household trick or shopping tip thrown in there that just sounds odd coming from a multi-billionaire currently rewiring his superhero suit.

“Aunt May,” he whispers when they get too far off track for his taste, legs jittering with barely contained nervousness, “Ask him.”

“Right,” his aunt nods and then laughs at how he scrunches up his nose when her long hair gets in his face. “Tony, we’re going to the Christmas market. Happy will pick you up in half an hour.”

He can just picture his mentor’s face at the announcement. Mouth hanging open, some tool forgotten in his h – _clonk –_ Peter tries to hide his giggles behind his hand and breathes through his nose as evenly as he can.

He loves how Aunt May can render _Iron-Man_ speechless.

_Please says yes, please say yes, please say –_

 “Uh, can’t – I’m, uh, busy.”

The disappointment comes crashing down hard and fast, leaving him reeling.

Of course Mister Stark doesn’t have time for some stupid Christmas market. He has a company to run and things to invent and people to save and, apparently, Aunt May doesn’t care about that at all.

He watches her with wide eyes, heart thumbing loudly in his chest, as she pats his shoulder reassuringly one last time before taking the phone from him and taking it off speaker.  

He knows she’s doing it to have some privacy but it’s not really his fault that his aunt keeps forgetting that he is enhanced now and that he can still hear Mister Stark’s voice even when she moves over to sit on the couch in the living room.

The teenager looks down at his hands, straining his ears while simultaneously acting as if he isn’t eavesdropping on the conversation. He sends a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening that Aunt May could get Mister Stark to agree and immediately feels stupid for it afterwards.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

He leans forward to rest his head on his forearms, trying his best not to freak out.

“I don’t know what made you think that this is a suggestion, Stark, because it’s not. This is an intervention, alright?”

The man is allowed to have a life outside of Peter. He doesn’t have to spend every single day with him – he must surely have better things to do than looking after some random teenager from Queens.

It’s just – he loves Christmas so much and what he loves most about it is spending time with his friends and family, no matter how small those numbers are. And – Mister Stark is a part of their family, isn’t he? Does he even want to be? His thoughts keep turning and he knows he’s overthinking but he can’t stop it as hard as he tries to.

“What’s your plan here, May? Babysitting me till the end of my days? Let me tell you, people have tried and they have all failed.”

He likes Peter, loves him even, apparently, but mentors aren’t usually also surrogate fathers and it’s not fair to just jump that shit on him because it feels right to him.

His mind falls into a familiar pattern of swirling in dark circles like it has since he first woke up.

Today is just one of these days were he’s questioning everything and when May suggested going to the Christmas market with Mister Stark, _as a family_ , he got overly excited as if all the happy thoughts that have been absent all day have come back full force and now that that’s not going to happen? He just feels even worse.

He hates his mind sometimes. And he fucking hates mood swings. Maybe he should go hide in his room for the rest of the day.

“It’s not babysitting, it’s taking care of each other, Tony,” Aunt May just says and his heart warms a little at her honest concern. He knows it’s for both his mentor and him because she is just good like that. “And you’ve been having a rough few days. I think a day off at the Christmas market will do you good. Just,” she sighs, “don’t push us away because you’re not feeling your brightest. We’re family, right?”

There’s a heavy pause in which Peter is holding his breath, eyes screwed shut, face hiding in his elbow, trying not to get his hopes up again.

“Yeah, we are. I, uh, I just haven’t had a family in a while so I’ll probably mess up. I – I don’t know the first thing about this, May. I don’t want to disappoint you… I don’t want to disappoint him.”

Peter’s heart speeds up a little, skipping a beat when hope settles into his veins.

“That’s alright. You can start by letting us take you to the Christmas market and promise me to have fun while we’re there.”

“Do you think he really wants to go?” Peter asks the second his aunt has ended the call, jumping up from where he is sitting to start bustling about the apartment, fidgeting with his sleeves. “I mean, we shouldn’t make him do something he doesn’t want to do. He probably won’t like it, he hates crowds. We should call him and tell him he doesn’t have to come, Aunt May. We should –“

“Peter, stop.” Suddenly Aunt May is standing in front of him, holding him in place with both hands on his shoulders. “Breathe, honey. Take a deep breath.”

He does as he is told and slumps in on himself a little, letting her hold him up, “I just – I don’t want him to get annoyed with me or bored or – stuff.”

“Stop,” she just repeats, voice so gentle that he wants to cry. “Do you want him there?”

“Yes, but –“

“Do you think he’d come if he really didn’t want to?”

He sighs. “No, but –“

“No buts,” she cuts him off, “Tony wants to be there. He wants to spend time with you and Pepper told me what big of a deal the whole hot chocolate thing was. He loves you, Peter.” She sounds so certain and, the thing is, the rational part of his brain knows she’s right. It’s just that – That part of him isn’t currently the one on the steering wheel.

“But he has better things to do than go to some stupid Christmas market,” he mumbles, leaning forward to rest his forehead on her collarbone. “I’ve been bugging him every day for the past four days when he didn’t want to have anyone around!”

“You’re not a bug. I’ve been told spiders are arachnids.”

For a split second he’s thrown for a loop. “You’re horrible and I hate you,” he tells her even as his lips quirk up and his chest starts to feel lighter.  

“You don’t, sweetie.” And she’s right, of course, so he tugs his head under her chin and enjoys the hug. “Do you feel better now that he’s joining us?” she asks, hands running up and down his spine comfortingly.

“Yeah, I think,” he nods truthfully, “Thank you.”

“That’s all that matters, you know? To him, too.”

* * *

There’s something about Christmas markets.

Maybe it’s the almost sickeningly sweet smell of cotton candy, roasted nuts, baked apples, hot mulled wine and crêpes, or the seemingly endless hum of Christmas songs in the background, or maybe it’s the nicely illuminated stalls offering the finest craftsmanship and, you know, lots of food.

What Peter loves so much about them, however, is the general feeling that accompanies them. It’s kind of noisy what with kids jumping about the scene, squealing excitedly about one thing or the other but it’s not overwhelmingly loud.

It doesn’t happen often anymore but here he feels at ease in a large crowd of people, especially with Aunt May and Mister Stark at his side.

It just – coming here is part of the Christmas experience and has been ever since he was little.

They’d go at least twice to look at the delicately crafted goods and eat more candy than Peter was ever allowed to any other time. Uncle Ben would take him to the ferry’s wheel and they’d watch all the pretty lights from the top of it.

So, maybe it’s just the memories at this point, but Peter loves Christmas markets.

_It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, toys in every store but the prettiest sight to see, is the holly that will be on your own front door_

“Look!” Peter exclaims suddenly, talking through a mouthful of almonds, “They got Christmas decorations!”

Which, to be fair, almost all stalls have, but these were incredible.

He takes a few steps so he can take a closer look at the intricate details of the wooden pendants, letting his fingers trail softly over the craftsmanship.

Behind him, he senses Mister Stark and Aunt May stepping closer, too, interrupting their conversation to admire the art as well.

“These are German,” Mister Stark tells him, eyes on a huge four- story pyramid with angels and lambs and Nutcrackers. “It’s original Ore Mountain folk art, I think it started out in the 16th century or something as a side project to mining and became increasingly popular in the 17th century. We used to have one of these when I was a kid.”

Peter stares at him, mouth hanging open in awe, both at how amazing these look and that Mister Stark willing shared something about his childhood with them.

“I love the hangers,” he tells him, pointing out the moons, stars, Christmas trees, angels, snowflakes and even a shooting star, all incredibly detailed and beautiful. “Imagine how amazing they’d look on a Christmas tree! Imagine a Christmas tree just with these! That’d be so beautiful!”

“Do you want them?”

Peter gapes at his mentor who just frowns in confusion. “What?”

“What? You like them. Do you want them?”

“No, no,” he shakes his head rapidly, “I like them but I don’t need them, ya know? We have loads of stuff to put on our Christmas tree and –“

Aunt May interrupts his rambling, “And Peter actually loves putting all the colors and lights on the tree.”

Mister Stark laughs softly. “Yeah, that seems about right. Still, if you want anything, just say the word, okay?”

He wouldn’t but his heart swells at the offer. They’re so expensive and he knows that the price doesn’t really matter to a billionaire but it does to him and knowing that he’d buy them just because Peter liked them means the world.

They wander about the market for a bit, drinking non-alcoholic punch and eating some more until Peter’s shivering gets too much.

He’s wearing a hat and a scarf of course but his cheek are bright red with cold and not even clutching his hot hug of punch does much to warm him up anymore.

“Maybe we should head back,” Mister Stark says more to his aunt than to him but Peter shakes his head.

“Noooh,” he whines through clattering teeth, “Please, I- wanna go to the fair, too.” He’s begging, fluttering his eyelashes at both adults, “I-I ju- just need to warm up a- a little a- and I’ll b-be fine. Promise.”

Mister Stark is already shaking his head but Aunt May sighs and moves closer to him and it’s all he can do not to victory jump in the air.

“Fine. We’ll get you a little warmed up and then you can choose one ride but after that we’re going home,” she tells him firmly.

“Yes, yes, yes. Thank you!”

“Come on, Tony,” she pulls on both their sleeves until they’re standing in a small circle, the fog of their cold breaths mixing in the air in front of them, “Let’s get our kid warmed up.”

It’s hilarious, really, how dumb- struck Mister Stark looks. He’s blinking and his usually witty brain seems to have come to a complete standstill as he stutters. “Wha- What?”

“You know how penguins warm up?”

His eyes are shooting question marks at both of them and, snickering into his punch, Peter moves closer, tugging himself into his aunt’s waiting arms and nudging his mentor until he curls an arm around his other side.

“They cuddle,” Peter tells him, voice muffled into their embrace, “To block out the cold.”

“And here I thought you should keep moving when you’re freezing not standing.”

The teenager sticks out his tongue, earning himself a slap on the back of his head by his aunt, “Cuddling ‘s better, though,” he says, “’S warms from the inside, too.”

Eventually Mister Stark warms up (ha!) to the whole idea and pulls May and him impossibly closer until Peter assures them that he’s feeling better again.

Not that he wants to leave the group hug – he loves group hugs – but there’s one thing he’s been looking forward to ever since they got here and when the cozy Christmas village turns into buzzling fair, he finds it immediately.

Peter is buzzing with excitement – and sugar, probably – when he sees the bumper cars.

“Mister Stark, Mister Stark,” he all but yells, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he tucks on the other man’s jacket. “Can we go for a ride? Please!”

He sounds like a child but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when he’s feeling all warm and fuzzy with love and cuddles and punch and sweets.

“Think you can keep up with me?” his mentor grins as he pulls out his wallet and goes to buy tickets, May having removed herself from the conversation to watch from the sidelines.

The teenager scoffs, “Keep up with you? Please, I can beat you. When I’m done with you, you’ll be too scared to drive a normal car anymore.”

And yeah, obviously he doesn’t have the best memories of driving but this? Shit talking with Tony? It comes naturally and it feels right and easy and fun.

Mister Stark’s eyes gleam with mirth when he hands him his chip.

“Oh sweet, innocent child,” he winks, “I have nothing to live for and I drive like it.”

Peter gasps audibly. “Mister Stark! You’re gonna die for that comment!”

“Kinda the point, kiddie,” the man laughs but it doesn’t feel burdened, just happy and at ease. “Come on. Let’s make you cry in your bumper car so we can get you back home.”


	6. Tuesday, December 18th: decorating

“I need your help, kid.”

If he’s not completely mistaken – which he rarely is – the loud _thumb_ he hears coming from the kid’s bedroom is a body that has previously been sitting on the ceiling and has dropped to the floor rather unceremoniously. He cringes at the sound but at least the following spluttering is enough indication for him to know that he probably didn’t kill himself with his acrobatics.

“Mister Stark? What are you doing here?”

The teenager’s cheeks are flushed and he’s in sweats and an oversized hoodie. His hair is flailing in every direction, not being held together by gel for once, and he has a big red mark on his chin from where he undoubtedly propped up his head.

He looks positively endearing and Tony can’t help the smile that, at this point, seems to be his default reaction to anything Peter Parker.

“Like I said,” he says in an attempt to not melt into a puddle of parental goo by wiping away the chocolate smear on his nose, “I need your help. Are you free?”

Of course he’s free. Tony already checked in with May who gave him her blessing with a smile a little too knowingly for his taste.

“Ye- Yeah, I’m free,” the kid perks up, hand coming up to rub his eyes before carding through his messy curls. “Whattaya need? Wait –“ he frowns, eyes widening, “Am I going to need my suit? Do you need Spider-Man’s help?”

The billionaire clicks his tongue in amusement, “You know, you really should stop thinking of Spider-Man as a separate person. With that being said, I am in need of Peter Parker’s help today.”

“Oh, okay,” he crosses his arms in front of his chest, overlong sleeves hiding his hands completely. “What do you need?”

Tony’s not sure whether he seems disappointed at him not requesting Spider-Man or excited because he needs Peter Parker. The kid’s face is surprisingly sober, not letting on much, which in itself is extremely odd. Peter Parker, not displaying every single thought flitting through his head? Unheard of.

“It’s a surprise,” he tells him because he loves seeing the confused wrinkles on his forehead and the way his eyes flit over his face, obviously trying to think of different options and, probably, coming up blank.

He taps the watch on his wrist. “But it’s a time sensitive surprise. Come on, squirt. We don’t wanna get there in the dark. So,” he makes a show of checking the time, “we only got a little over an hour left. Better get going.”

Peter doesn’t need to be told twice. Forgotten is the drowsy sleepiness and back is the energetic boy who can’t stop asking him where they’re going, what they’re doing, if it’s cool, if it’s hard, if he needs a scarf,.. _Mister Staaaaaaark, tell me, pleaaassseee_.

Not ten minutes later and they’re in the car, speeding off to one of the better Tree Stands in Manhattan.

While Peter is chatting, Tony is taking the opportunity to watch him whenever they’re coming to a stand at a red light or get stuck in traffic. The boy looks relaxed and excited, a lot like he did yesterday after their bumper car ride. (Which he, much to Tony’s chagrin, did pretty much best him at.) May has told him about Peter’s mood swings that have started yesterday, though.

It’s why they’re going Christmas tree shopping in the first place. Maybe it would cheer him up.

After all, the kid is almost ridiculously enthusiastic about anything Christmas- related, and if that’s all he needs to brighten his mood? Well, who’s Tony to deny that boy anything?

So, going against everything he has believed in for the past 27 years, he is going to try is damned hardest to make this Christmas as enjoyable for Peter as possible and, he has decided he’s going to love every minute of it.

When they get to the right address and out of the car, Tony studies the kid’s stance – a little unsure and hesitant at first, looking a little lost – and how it changes the moment his eyes land on the collection of Christmas trees – he stands a little more upright, eyes wide with wonder and inquiry.

 _Really?_ He seems to be asking to which Tony responds with a chuckle and an arm slung around the kid’s shoulder.

“I would’ve taken you upstate or, I don’t know, to Canada maybe so you could actually choose your tree and help cutting it down,” he tells him conspiratoriailly, stearing them to the entrance, “But that would’ve blown our time frame, so I hope this is okay.”

He can only just make out the enthusiastic nodding underneath the teenager’s hat and scarf but he leans into his side as a quiet thank you. He squeezes his shoulder as a ‘you’re welcome’ in return.

They’re walking along the rows to look at the bigger trees, chatting about pros and cons of each one and Tony finds he is actually enjoying picking out a tree and looking forward to putting it up. Who would’ve thought?

After their sixth tree, Peter stops and grabs a hold of the sleeve of his coat, effectively stopping him from moving along to the next one.

“I thought you hated Christmas,” he says, voice a little muffled by the huge scarf that is covering his neck up to his lower lip. His cheeks are flush with cold but he doesn’t seem to be feeling cold just yet.

Tony nods and lets out a deep breath, taking a moment to watch the fog whirl and fade to get his thoughts in order. “But you love it,” he decides to say eventually because it’s as true as he’s going to get without getting too emotional. He thinks Peter understands him anyway when he leans forward to wrap his arms around him, hugging him tightly.

He buries his cold nose into Tony’s neck like he always does and his warm breath tickles the billionaire when he mumbles his thank you in there, too.

“Welcome, kiddo,” he whispers, gently patting his back before clearing his throat to clear up some of The Emotion. “Now, let’s get that tree picked so we can start decorating before your bedtime.”

At that the kid lights up once more, practically bolting for the next one.

It takes another half an hour and the sky is already turning dark, giving way to the lights and decorations all throughout the city when they make their way back to the tower with their new charge.

Maneuvering a just short of three meter tall tree into the elevator proves to be more of a struggle than anticipated but they make it, with only a few more cuts and fir needle on them than they had before.

Now, decorating the things is a different story altogether.

“I can’t believe you bought these, Mister Stark.”

The teenager looks adorably affronted what with his oversized Christmas Ironman hoodie, sitting on the floor cross-legged staring at the box with tree hangers Tony got from the Christmas market earlier that day.

He has made sure to get everyone Peter pointed out yesterday at least once and then some. Of course there are several fairy lights in different make and color – because what does he know about fairy lights, honestly – as well as candles and tinsel - because he read that is a thing, though he cannot fathom as to why.

“You’ve lost your mind,” Peter tells him firmly even as his eyes brighten at the star shaped tree topper he’s pulling from its box. “But I think we can make a halfway decent Christmas tree with this.”

“Oh,” he laughs, “Think we can make Pepper proud?”

Peter stares at him, eyes wide and a little scared. “Oh god. It will never be good enough for Miss Potts, Mister Stark.”

The hopelessness in his eyes at the thought breaks Tony and he keels over with laughter. “Don’t – Don’t worry,” he hiccups, “She- she’ll probably blame – blame it on –on me any – anyway. If we tell her you did it,” he grins, leaning over to ruffle his hair and taking the time to catch his breath, “She’s going to adore it.”

“Thank god,” the kid breathes out, then frowns, “Now, how are we going to get the decorations to the top?”

“And here I thought you were the one with sticky powers.”

That makes Peter perk up. “SUPER HERO TEAM UP,” he declares loudly as if he’s a sport commentator, “Iron- Man and Spider-Man decorate most beautiful tree in all of New York.”

* * *

 

“ _Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmy_ -“

“Kid, calm down,” Tony orders him softly and takes a step forward, metal clanking against the floor. “You’re going to be alright, okay? I’ll be right here.”

“But,” the teenager stammers, looking up at him with the widest eyes he has ever seen, “what if I break it?”

“Break what? I think the suit can –“

“I mean the tower,” Peter whispers mortified, “What if I break the tower?”

That makes Tony laugh although, to be fair it’s probably not too far off if he thinks back to how he started out. “You won’t, Peter, relax.”

“Are you really sure?”

“Am I sure that I’m letting you fly in one of the Iron-Man suits to put up the star at the top?” he asks rhetorically, grinning when Peter responds with a serious nod, “Yeah, I’m a hundred percent sure.”

With another string of ‘ _ohmygodohmygodohmygod’_ Peter takes a tentative step forward and, once the face plate is down, puts more and more power into the thrusters until –

Until he’s flying.

He’s hovering in the air a little unsteadily, wobbling to either side before getting the hang of just how much is needed for what movement.

Tony’s still on the ground, his own suit nothing more than a safety measure in case the kid actually falls, but he’s not surprised that it only takes him two minutes of getting used to before he’s soaring through the living room, whooping with every turn.

“Alright you nuisance,” he calls up, throwing the star in the air for Peter to catch, “Time to get some work down.”

Very carefully Peter maneuvers himself over to the tree, mindful not to accidentally fly into it and, with steady hands flies closer until he’s right next to the top and slowly lowers the last piece of decoration onto it.

“How’s it look?” he calls down to Tony who can’t help but feel weirdly emotional about hearing his kid’s voice through the Iron-Man armor.

“Perfect,” he yells back against the repulsor sounds and when he goes to turn on the fairy lights after Peter has already landed next to him once more, he can’t help but agree with himself.

The tree is perfect. The decorations are perfect. Today has been perfect. This kid is perfect.

And, maybe, Christmas isn’t all that bad if he’s getting to spend it like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I have no explanation but it was funny in my head. Hope you liked it!


	7. Wednesday, December 19th: buying/ hiding gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhodey joins the Iron Fam Christmas Jam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I've been majorly stressed out for weeks and kinda had enough today. So extra special thanks for all your kind words because they never fail to brighten my day. You're the best!

“Hey Tones, I was wondering when you were planning on picking up –“

Rhodey breaks off and stops walking halfway through stepping into his best friend’s sanctum and workshop. His feet is hovering over the floor, leg braces whirring softly at the oddly timed halt.

“What the fuck,” he whispers softly when he can’t see past the first few meters of the lab because of the mess it is in and finally sets his foot down. “What the hell, Tony?”

And, James Rhodes knows messy. He’s known Tony for decades now and he’s familiar with the special kind of Tony Stark messes, but this? This is something else. What he is looking at right now puts messiness on a whole new level. Hell, it probably redefines the meaning of the word.

“Over here, honey bear!”

His best friend’s voice comes from the far end of the room, hidden behind various long pipes and piles of what looks like junk to a regular bystander and – is that _glowing paint_?

“Would you mind shutting the door and F.R.I.D.A.Y. put us into stealth mode again, please?”

Rhodey feels like an idiot but he can’t help staring at the messy shock of dark hair that’s peeking out from somewhere behind the – debris? That’s really the only word he can think of for this. “Stealth mode? What the fuck is going on here, Tony? Are you trying to blow yourself up again?”

“Language, platypus.”

He blinks. Then rubs his hand over his face in exhaustion because – what in the hell is he supposed to make of that? Has Tony been freaky-fridayed without telling anyone? (He probably shouldn’t be considering the option quite as seriously as he currently is.)

“Can you please come out of your cave and enlighten me what’s going on here?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he hears him mutter and shuffle through his materials, “give me a second. What are you here for anyway? Did you see the Christmas tree we put up? Pretty cool, right?”

That – that just stops him dead in his tracks for good like the final straw of sanity he has managed to hold on to through years of dealing with the man.

It’s not that putting up a Christmas tree is weird or unheard of. Just – that it kind of is.

In the all the years Rhodey has known Tony for, he has never been this excited about Christmas. Hell, he has never been excited about Christmas. Period.

When his parents were still alive, he used to hate all the public functions they would have to attend with Howard and not even his mum and Jarvis could really make up for how much Tony despised being put in the spotlights, especially during a time that was supposed to be quiet and peaceful. Christmas used to stress him out in his teenage years, would make him so anxious that he tried to hang out with Rhodey and his family whenever his father would allow.

Then came The Time After The Accident.

He’s not sure Tony has much recollection of the Christmas in 1991 but Rhodey does and it’s done enough of an impression on him to never let his best friend alone over Christmas again.

It didn’t matter whether there was a SI thing going on, some party or board meeting or whatever the heck could come up – Rhodey was either there with Tony or Tony wasn’t allowed to go at all.

For years he tried to hold on that much tighter around Christmas to not let him slip through his fingers again. He never wanted to see him that broken, that lost, that horribly _gone_ ever again.

It got easier when Pepper came into the picture, especially when they started dating, but there’s still a big part of Rhodey that goes on high alert as soon as the holidays roll around. The unease to let Tony go on his merry way never really left and albeit he knows that the man is in a much better place now than he was before, he can’t help but worry.

It’s instinctual, so deeply ingrained that it has become second nature to him.

That usually means checking up every other day and this year that has mostly been limited to calls. Apparently, though, someone else has been looking after his friend and he has a pretty good guess that someone is also the one behind the whole Christmas Tree Miracle.

“You put up a Christmas tree?” he asks him when Tony has dug himself out of his own mess, oil-stained towel tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, Black-Sabbath- shirt hitched up to his elbows and a huge dorky grin on his face.

For a brief moment Rhodey wonders who that person is and what he has done with his best friend. Never, in a million years, would he have thought the man would smile so close to the 16th like he is now. It makes an anxious part of his heart settle for the first time in literal decades.

“We did,” the disaster on legs in front of him confirms, plopping down on the couch and motioning for Rhodey to join him which he does without hesitation, albeit more slowly. “Peter and I picked it up yesterday and, you know how much I hate patting myself on the back, but I think we did a pretty fantastic job. You should take a look before you head out again.”

The other man lets out a laugh, leaning back into the soft pillows and he slowly relaxes into the conversation. “I can’t even begin to imagine how much it must’ve hurt you to make that statement,” he jokes, “But what on earth have you been doing back there?”

“Uh,” Tony rubs his ear, smearing some of the dirt still on his hands into his temple and he looks downright sheepish. “Well, I’ve been working on Christmas presents. For Peter mostly,” he adds as if there has been any doubt in Rhodey’s mind about that at all.

“I have no clue what to get him, Rhodey,” he whines when he’s only met with a chuckle, “I’ve been working on a smart watch with panic button, integrated A.I. and all that jazz and I’ve been thinking about a car, obviously, or maybe upgrades for his suit? But he’s getting those anyway! Or what about –“

“Tony, Tones,” Rhodey breaks off his rambling, “Breathe, alright? Just. Breathe.”

Of course he doesn’t listen. When has Tony Stark ever been able to listen to anyone?

“The thing is – I’d be giving him this stuff anyway! He’s just – What am I supposed to get him that is special? I’m _awful_ at this.”

“I honestly think you’re overthinking this,” he tells him quietly, hand coming out to rest on Tony’s knee to make him look at him and to ground him before he hyperventilates. “You know Peter and you know he doesn’t really want any of that –“ He shushes him with a raise of his hand before he can argue, “Of course he’d be over the moon if you got him any of that stuff but think about something that would make him really happy, Tony. He likes your tech good enough but do you know what he really loves?”

God bless this mess of a human being who just gives a halfhearted clueless shrug.

“You, Tony. That kid adores you and if you want my advice, I’d say get him something personal, something only you will ever be able to give him. No matter how small it might be, it’s going to be the biggest fucking gesture you can make. It’s going to mean the world to him.”

“Language.”

Rhodey laughs at him but Tony’s not even in the same room with him anymore. He’s jumped up and has started bustling about the room, pulling out papers and blue prints and sending them flying to the floor again, all the while muttering to himself like a maniac.

“Will you be okay?”

“What? Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Thanks a lot. Oh and don’t forget to look at that tree! Gotta get back to work! Love you, bye!”

He leaves him to his work after that, still reveling in the fact that his best friend seems _fine_. Genuinely, legitimately fine. 

For the first time in years he doesn’t have a lump in his throat when he’s leaving him to his own devices because he’s working on something fundamentally _good_ , a Christmas present for his sort-of-son. He’s not biding his time until the next panic attack hits or riding out his anxiety by coming up with new blueprints for some fancy new tech. It’s a long way from where he’s been. It’s progress.

Making his way upstairs to the penthouse Rhodey briefly considers warning Pepper about the changes in her fiancé but ultimately thinks better of it, a little smile tugging on his lips when he tries to imagine the baffled look in her eyes when she realizes what a sap he has become over the week she’s been making deals on the other side of the Earth.

Although, come to think of it, Pepper probably knows already. She’s ridiculously intuitive in handling Tony and foreseeing his mood swings, it’s downright scary sometimes. She’s truly a –

“Woah.”

Yet again his train of thoughts gets interrupted and he’s left speechless at the sight of the huge ass Christmas tree that’s shining with what looks like at least a thousand fairy lights, topped off with tinsel and a finishing touch of wooden hangers.

It’s not just the tree, though, the whole living room has been turned into the epitome of _Christmas_. There are glowing stars and corny stockings, an expensive-looking wooden pyramid turning ever so slowly and a nutcracker next to a bowl of walnuts and mandarins and candles, so many candles in all sizes, colors and forms.

Most importantly, though, and almost a part of the scene is the teenager crouched down in front of it, looking completely at home right where he is, albeit a little jittery with a neatly wrapped parcel in his arms.

He’s about to make his presence known when the boy turns around with a small wave of his hand.

Right, enhanced teenage superhero, he forgets that sometimes.

“What are you up to?” Rhodey asks him closing the distance until he’s standing beside him and then, because it feels weird to just tower over the much smaller kid, goes to take a seat next to him – carefully situating himself, mindful of his legs.

When he hears the soft whirring of the prosthetics, Peter scrambles to help him adjust, almost dropping the present he has been holding onto in the process. Only when the older man is comfortable, does he answer.

He looks sheepish, mirroring Tony’s expression from just minutes earlier to a tee.

“I, uh, I wanted to be the first one to put a present underneath the tree. And, uh, I,” he meets his eyes conspirationally, “I think Mister Stark is already working on his gift and, uh, it’s probably going to be something super fancy and if I get more time to think about it I’ll probably just throw it away because I’ll realize that it can never be good enough but right now I still feel pretty good about it, so basically I’m forcing myself not to back out by already putting it here where everyone can see it.”

To Rhodey’s delight he takes in a deep breath after finishing, seeing as he has completely forgotten to stock up on air while talking. Really, he gets why Tony loves this kid so much. They’re basically the same person.

“That sounds like a good plan,” he tells him, “And I’m sure Tony’s going to love it.” _He loves you, kid. He really does. I hope it tells you that, too._

Peter smiles a little at that, fingers drumming on the package in an irregular pattern, “I think so, too. At least, I hope so. Anyway, what are you doing here, Mister Rhodes? Do you need anything?”

“I went to check up on Tony and when he mentioned a Christmas tree I just had to see it for myself,” he tells him with a grin and points to the huge thing with his thumb, “Gotta say I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“It’s amazing,” the teenager agrees, smile spreading until his whole face is alight with joy and his eyes sparkle with the Christmas lights they’re reflecting.

“Also,” Rhodey adds because suddenly he feels like he needs to say this at least once and who knows when he’ll next meet the kid without his hovering mentor. “I wanted to thank you.”

Peter frowns, genuine confusion evident in his eyes. “What for?”

“Just,” the older man sighs and meets his gaze, trying to convey how much he means his next words with his eyes alone, “Just for being you and for being here. I have never seen Tony this happy on Christmas and you’re a big part of the reason why. So, thank you for giving him something to celebrate this year.”

As if just realizing what a major role he’s playing in his mentor’s life Peter’s expression morphs from surprise to determination. Rhodey watches in awe how he shoulders the responsibility that comes with it without missing a beat and straightens his posture, truly looking like the superhero he is and a lot more mature than most adults he knows.

“Mister Stark deserves happiness, especially on Christmas,” he declares seriously, “It’s the least I can do, after,” he waves his hand in the air, “after everything he did for me.”

“Still, thank you,” Rhodey repeats earnestly, gratefully and then, because this is getting too serious for such a joyous occasion asks, “So. What did you get him?”

Peter’s eyes go wide in excitement. “But you have to _swear_ not to tell _anyone_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think Peter's present for Tony is? And what is Tony going to end up making for his kid? I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	8. Thursday, December 20th: snowflake hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh. It's weird to just write fluff. I miss writing angsty emotions. (It's why I had to write this thing twice because it just wouldn't work). Hope it's okay now!

**Peter Parker [8:21am]:** mister

 **Peter Parker [8:21am]:** stark

 **Peter Parker [8:21am]:** it’s

 **Peter Parker [8:21am]:** snowing

 **Peter Parker [8:22am]:** !!!!!!!!!

Tony Stark sent a picture

 **Tony Stark [8:22am]:** I know. Shouldn’t you be in class?

 **Peter Parker [8:23am]:** woah! is that the compound?? there’s so much snow!

 **Peter Parker {8:23am]:** I am but it’s  s n o w i n g. everyone is talking about it

 **Peter Parker [8:24am]:** what are you doing at the compound? can you build a snowman for me?

 **Tony Stark [8:25am]:** I’m not going to build a snowman. Some of us have work to do.

 **Peter Parker [8:26am]:** not you, obviously

 **Peter Parker [8:26am]:** so, snowman?

 **Tony Stark [8:27am]:** You are a menace who can build their own snowman

 **Tony Stark [8:28am]:** When’s school out?

 **Peter Parker [8:28am]:**  :(

 **Peter Parker [8:28am]:** probably a little early. it’s supposed to snow a  l o t

 **Peter Parker [8:29am]:** maybe 1ish?

 **Peter Parker [8:30am]:** why?

 **Tony Stark [8:32am]** : Happy’ll pick you up.  I’ll talk to May.

 **Peter Parker [8:32am]:** pick me up for what????

 **Peter Parker [8:32am]:** mister stark

 **Peter Parker [8:33am]:** is he taking me to the compound??? 

 **Peter Parker [8:33am]:** so we can build a snowman???

 **Tony Stark [8:35am]** : No. He’s taking you to the compound so you can build a snowman.

 **Peter Parker [8:36am]** : you’ll help me tho

 **Tony Stark [8:37am]:** I won’t. Now quit texting and pay attention.

 **Tony Stark [8:37am]:** To your teacher, not the snow.

 

When Peter gets to the compound a little after three in the afternoon, the ground is covered in snow. Three paths have been cleared to get to the different entrances and there are occasional footsteps that have strayed from the trail, leaving everything else meticulously untouched.

The snow is glistening in the sun, reflecting its light and making the world seem that much brighter. The whole scene has a graceful pureness to it, a feeling of peacefulness and bliss.

He has never seen a blanket of snow so spotless and unharmed by both people and fumes. New York City snow is usually dirty right after it settles on the ground. Not this snow, though. This is more brilliant than anything he’s ever seen. Dazzling in its vivid brilliancy. It’s beautiful.

Happy is scurrying ahead to escape the cold as quickly as possible, hat pulled deeply into his face and coat flying behind him. Peter watches him with a grin but saunters behind much more slowly, lingering to take in the sight and digest it properly.

He’s cold – he always is nowadays – but that doesn’t stop him from squatting down to gather some of the white substance in his hands, forming it into a ball and watching it melt around the edges in fascination.

“Peter, get in here you dunce, you’re gonna freeze to death.”

Mister Stark is standing in the door way, clad in jeans and a plain black t-shirt, arms crossed over his chest, his hands rubbing over his skin to generate warmth. His breath comes out puffy and he’s speaking through chattering teeth.

“Be there in a sec,” Peter calls back, taking his time to get up, brush off the snow and start walking again.

By the time it takes him to reach the door the tiny snowball he picked up has already melted, leaving his hands wet and burning red with the cold, and Mister Stark is waiting for him, impatiently tapping some rock song with his foot.

He seizes his chance and leaps at his unsuspecting mentor, pressing his hands to his bare neck as he’s barreling into his arms for a hug.

The high-pitched squeal and the colorful curse words the superhero spits out don’t stop him from pulling the teenager into the building completely, trapping the cold outside by shutting the door. While maneuvering them both over to one of the heaters his right hand finds its way into the messy chock of curls while the other starts rubbing at the boy’s arms to warm him up.

Peter burrows into the embrace more fully and enjoys being fussed over for a moment longer before raising his head to meet the other man’s eyes excitedly.

“Can we go build a snowman now?”

Mister Stark scoffs and, holding him at arm’s length, points to his outfit with an unimpressed snort, “In that skimpy thing? No, you’re not.”

“But Mister Stark,” he whines, shaking the man’s hands off and crossing his arms in front of his chest to properly glare at him. “I don’t have any other jackets here. Or any clothes at all for that matter.”

The man rolls his eyes and Peter is already planning his next stage of attack, debating on whether or not pouting and puppy eyes would be enough or if he would have to pull out his web shooters.

“Yes, you do,” he tells him instead, stopping his train of thoughts, “I made you something. Since you were so insisting on spending your afternoon freezing to death, so that you don’t actually die of cold.”

“I thought you had to work,” the teenager inquires with an overly sweetly grin but follows after his mentor anyway.

“I did, actually, thanks for keeping me from it. Idiot.”

They’ve reached Mister Stark’s private area of the building where a plate with snacks and tea is already waiting for him and Peter shrugs out of his jacket, dumping it on the couch. The room has the perfect temperature, he decides when he thinks into the couch. Only in passing he sticks out his tongue. “You love me.”

Mister Stark rolls his eyes, _because of course he does_ , not even phased by the L-word as Peter notices smugly. “So what? That gives you the right to act like an idiot?” He’s walked past the couch and into one of the adjoining rooms so his voice is muffled. “It doesn’t, by the way.”

“Ah man,” he pouts but waits patiently for the other man to get back while munching on some of the crackers contently. “And here I thought I was getting something out of this.”

“You are.” His mentor is back and he’s carrying a huge pile of – _something_. Clothes? “You’re getting a brand new coat, gloves and a sweater all with build in heater.”

Peter stares at him, hand frozen halfway on its way to his mouth still holding half a cracker, taking in how ridiculously overladen he looks before he splutters, crumbs and spit flying every which way. “Is- is that an _Iron-Man_ hoodie?”

Mister Stark glares at him but there’s a fondness in his eyes that he doesn’t even try to hide. “It is. But the best thing about it is this.” He lets everything else drop to the floor and points to a small red and blue speck next to the gold and red armor on Peter’s new sweater.

He squints at the image then falls over laughing. “Spider-Man is not actually wearing diapers, ya know?”

“Could’ve fouled me,” he grumbles good-heartedly, “Now, eat up, get dressed and then we’ll build that snowman.”

“So you are going to help me,” Peter grins smugly around his cracker. “Hate to say I told you so but –“

“Whatever, squirt. Just eat.”

* * *

 

Peter is almost done with the snowball he’s been rolling around and, from the looks of it, Mister Stark’s is already pretty advanced as well.

They have been working together in companionable silence so far, only ever communicating through grunts, raised eyebrows and quiet laughs. Despite his loud protests against it, Mister Stark seems to actually be enjoying something as mundane as building a snowman and he’s putting a lot of thought and effort into creating the perfect ball from what Peter can tell.

It makes him wonder if the man has ever built a snowman before or if that’s just one of the things in his childhood he has missed out on.

Sometimes it hits him how little people have who have everything but no one to share it with and how an orphaned kid from Queens has had a more sheltered upbringing than a billionaire with both parents alive, a big house and more toys than he could ever play with.

He’s only ever known what it’s like to not have much in a material sense and make the best out of it. The one thing they have always had in spades is love and that has always been enough.

“I think I’ve only ever built a snowman once.”

Peter pauses for a beat because surely Mister Stark couldn’t read his mind… right? Just to be sure, though, he tries to think of something that the man would surely comment on if he could hear it and - completely zones out of the actual conversation they were having.

“Pete? You okay?” His mentor sounds a little concerned which is probably reasonable since he hasn’t moved for like a whole minute.

“Huh?” He blinks rapidly, mind coming back to the real world now that he’s certain he’s alone in his head. (Because Mister Stark would have at least looked up if he had heard Peter recite an essay on why Iron-Man is his favorite superhero.)

The man is leaning against his half-finished snowball with a deep frown, looking like he’s about to bolt for Peter should he not start moving in the next few seconds.

“I asked you whether you usually build snowmen or women but you don’t have to –“

“No,” he quickly interrupts him before the billionaire can brush off the fact that they’re kind of, sort of talking about winter traditions which is, in Peter’s eyes, only a step away from Christmas traditions and that’s what he’s aiming for in the long run. “No, uh, I mean. We also built snowwomen? Not with, uh,” he splutters, “Uh, with, you know, a, uh, chest but, uh, I don’t know. We gave them long hair sometimes.”

Mister Stark is watching him as if he has just lost his mind but that’s fine because he’s also laughing into his scarf and his breath comes out foggy and rapidly because of it.

Peter shrugs, looking back down and patting some snow to his snowball before he starts rolling it again. “One year Uncle Ben even sacrificed one of Aunt May’s brooms and we braided them to give her nice hair. She was not happy.”

“I can imagine she wasn’t,” his hero chuckles lightly. “I’m about done. Think we can stack them already?”

“Yes!” He leaps forward, almost toppling over the snowball he has just spent almost fifteen minutes perfecting and just grins sheepishly at Mister Stark who, of course, has already moved, arms out to catch him should he fall. He pats the hands away and goes to pick up the smaller ball to put it on top of the other.

While he’s packing some more snow between the sections to even it out a little, Mister Stark already starts making the last snowball.

“Did you make a snowman or snowwoman?” Peter asks after a bit, brushing off some of the snow on his clothes and then rubbing some stray curls from his eyes with a relatively warm glove. He loves these built-in heaters!

“Huh?” Mister Stark looks up briskly as if Peter has pulled him from his thoughts but when his gaze settles on the teenager his face morphs into a wide smile. “You look adorable,” he tells him earnestly to which Peter just huffs indignantly.

“But you do,” he reaffirms rolling his snowball until he’s standing right in front of the boy. He reaches out and ruffles his hair. His gloves are a lot colder than Peter’s but his touch is so gentle he doesn’t really mind. “You’ve got snowflakes in your hair,” he tells him fondly. “You should probably wear a hat next time.”

Peter rolls his eyes and picks up the last of the balls, continuing his work on giving their snowperson a proper shape.

“You could get me one for Christmas,” he suggests offhandedly, “I mean you’re not getting me a hoodie, right? Since you just got me one? And I think Aunt May would freak if you got me a car or maybe –“

“We made snow-cap,” Mister Stark cuts off his fishing for clues on his Christmas present, actually managing to throw Peter off with the change of subject.

“Which is hilarious now that I think back to it. We made an actual Snow- Capsicle.” He goes quiet for a bit and, unlike every other time when he talks about his childhood, he’s actually smiling. “Gave him a blue hat and wooden Captain America shield and a flag as a cape. Jarvis even found a pair of these aviator goggles. He looked awesome.”

He doesn’t say what happens afterwards and Peter doesn’t ask but something in his eyes turns sad, even though he keeps the corners of his lips turned up. Instead he does what he does best, he rambles.

“Can we give him a pair of your sunglasses maybe?” he wants to know, excitement flooding his veins and coloring his cheek at the picture and he can see Mister Stark’s eyes softening once more when he looks over at him.

“And, uh, I got a carrot from inside but we still need charcoal or pebbles or something for his mouth and for his front. And mmh, arms, obviously.”

He’s already searching the ground for small stones and Mister Stark is wandering off to a tree to get two twigs for arms. It doesn’t take long for them to get everything and dress him properly.

After Peter puts in the nose and his mentor puts on the sunglasses he pulled from his secret stash in his inside pockets, they both take a step back to admire their handiwork.

The teenager frowns. “Something’s missing,” he mutters but he can’t work out what it is until Mister Stark steps forward and loops his scarf around the snowperson’s head.

“Better?”

Peter grins. “Now he looks like you,” he exclaims happily, leaning into the superhero’s side, head resting on the man’s shoulder. “I love it.”

“Yeah,” Mister Stark replies quietly amused and rests his head on top of Peter’s as he pulls him closer. “Because every snowman should wear one and a half grand in Tom Ford and Cartier.”

“He’s – WHAT?”


	9. Friday, December 21st: cold red nose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little late 'cause I got home late last night. Hope you enjoy this anyway x

“Hey Mister Stark,” Peter greets him excitedly when he slips into his car.

The teenager is clad in his new heated coat, scarf slung around his neck and gloves in hand that he’s shoving into the open compartment of his backpack before throwing the whole thing onto the back seat and slumping into the passenger seat that Tony has made sure is already at a Spider-friendly temperature.

“I’m so happy school is over for the year,” he sighs in exasperation and sounds like an old battle-hardened veteran not a sixteen year old kid who just spent the last few hours watching a movie and eating cookies in school.

Tony chuckles lightly and patiently waits for the kid to put on his seatbelt before putting the car into drive and hitting the gas pedal.

“I’m sure it was horrendous,” he agrees, voice dripping with sarcasm that promptly earns him a glare from the side. “So what do you wanna do today?”

Peter shrugs, yawns and sinks impossibly deeper into the leather seat. “Dunno. I thought we’d work in the lab and then catch a movie or something?” _Like we always do_ , goes unsaid but is clear in his calm voice and casual posture. “I gotta call Aunt May tonight she wanted me to help her choose dinner for Tuesday. I think she’s a little nervous that Miss Potts is coming, too.”

“And here I thought it was my presence that makes your aunt nervous,” he whines in mock complaint.

In his peripheral view he can see the teenager turn his head to watch him before he says, “You’re not very scary, Mister Stark.”

Which is, frankly, insulting so he does what any responsible adult would do and ignores him.

Instead he focuses ahead on the traffic that is one of the worst of the year. Not only is it the last working day before Christmas and schools are out but the snow is still laying on the side of the street and as happens every winter without fail, some people completely forgot how to drive the second the first snowflake hit the ground.

He drums _Thank God It’s Christmas_ by Queen into the steering wheel – because apparently that’s how whipped he is – and taps the blinker before changing lanes.

“That’s not the way home, Mister Stark.” Peter’s voice sounds a little sleepy as if he’s been dozing for the five minutes he’s been quiet.

Home. Not ‘the tower’. _Home_.

“We’re not going home just yet,” he tells him, smiling when that seems to wake the boy right up, and continues before he can ask. “I did some research on things you have to do in winter and for Christmas and, because we’d have to go further for skiing or sledding or hiking, I’m taking you ice skating.”

Tony notes with a grin how the energy in the car shifts at his words. Gone is the sleepiness and Peter is buzzing in excitement again, sitting straighter and craning his head to see where they’re going.

“That’s so cool, Mister Stark!” he exclaims, happily drumming a random melody into his leg. “I haven’t been ice skating at all this year! I’m pretty good at it actually. Thank you for taking me,” he beams at him, “So does that mean you don’t hate Christmas anymore?”

“No,” he shakes his head and lets two girls on bikes pass them before turning the corner, “it just means that I like you more than I hate Christmas.”

And, really, he’s warming up to this whole Christmas thing a little bit, too. No need to let Peter in on that secret, though, it’s already bad enough that Pepper has been happily teasing him about it ever since he picked her up from the airport last night.

“Awh,” Peter coos – yes, actually coos – and smiles up at him sweetly. “That’s cute, Mister Stark. I never would’ve guessed since you’re insulting me all the time.”

“I’m not insulting you,” he gives back with a roll of his eyes as he slows down to find a parking spot next to the ice rink.

The teenager clicks his tongue in disagreement. “Menace and idiot are insults, you know? And you call me that _all the time_.” Before the billionaire even has the chance to protest, he waves his hand in the air lazily, “Good thing I know that that’s how you show you care or I’d be very sad.”

“Oh please,” Tony scoffs because he knows that he’s joking because he’s an actual menace, “You’re doing a pretty great job dishing out yourself. You should be able to take it.”

He swiftly pulls into one last open spot he finds and, as soon as the car is turned off, reaches over to ruffle Peter’s hair. “Come on now, we’re here. It’s time to show me what you’re made of. Oh and before I forget,” he leans over and pulls out a bobble hat from the glovebox to hand it to him, “Can’t have your ears freeze off. And don’t forget your gloves!”

Unsurprisingly, Peter is pretty agile on the ice, taking swift turns and racing Tony as if he’s never done anything else in his life. He’s laughing loudly and freely and it’s the best sound Tony has ever heard in his life. So he lets the kid tease him and acts bummed out when he loses most of their chases just so he won’t stop smiling.

Competing against a super teen in a race on the ice isn’t all that exciting, though, and after about half an hour they switch it up and just mess around on the ice which, incidentally, leads to Tony showing off his figure skating skills, which in turn, leads to an overly excited teenager who desperately wants to learn how to do a spin.

“How’d you even know how to do that?” he wants to now, a little annoyed when he stumbles and almost falls for the third time in a row.

“I did ballet,” he tells him as he catches his arm to keep the kid upright on the ice, “My teacher thought it was important to know some ice skating, too. Or maybe she just wanted to do something else once a year, I’m not really sure, honestly.”

They spend another two hours there, Tony teaching Peter a few tricks until he’s basically sailing over the ice gracefully, completely forgetting about everything else going on around them. That is, until Peter sneezes for the first time, stumbles and Tony looks at him more closely.

He has pulled his hat down so it’s almost covering his eyes and his mouth and most of his cheek is hidden by a thick wool scarf. The only thing sticking out is his nose and that’s bright red and cold.

The teenager is also yawning and when Tony grabs his hand and pulls him closer to see how cold he really is, he doesn’t even protest and just leans into his mentor’s side contently.

“Come on, Pete,” the older man smiles down at him as he steers him towards the exit gently, “Let’s get you home before you turn blue on me.”

A dopey smile graces his lips and the motion lets the scarf slip down to his chin so Tony can see the rosy cheeks, too.

“Home,” he grins happily, making his mentor’s heart clench in his chest, “Yeah, let’s. Can we have pancakes for breakfast tomorrow?”

Tony laughs quietly to himself and tugs the boy off the ice carefully, “Of course. It’s tradition, isn’t it?”

“And movie night tonight?”

He honestly doubts that Peter will be awake for more than twenty minutes of any movie they would watch but he nods anyway because that’s not what it is about at all.

“You just wanna be cuddled till you fall asleep.”

At this point, the kid is too exhausted to argue and just agrees drowsily which is, for some reason, the most adorable thing Tony has ever seen. “’S true ‘n’ you should say it.”


	10. Saturday, December 22nd: bundling up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 2am and I'm dead on my feet. Have some angsty comfort. Enjoy x

Peter’s lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, whole body rigid.

His heartbeat still hasn’t completely calmed down. He feels the fist-sized organ thumping loudly in his chest two times a second and he’s holding his breath so he doesn’t hyperventilate but it only enhances the panic sitting in his rib cage until his lips break open in a silent beg for air.

He prays for peace, for quiet, for anything but this.

Tears are running down his face and he’s too shaken to wipe them away, still not completely back in control over his body.

He just wants –

Aunt May or Mister Stark.

But Aunt May is at home, probably sleeping tightly and enjoying her weekend off, and Mister Stark – Mister Stark doesn’t sleep all that much but he does when Miss Potts is around and Miss Potts is finally back from her business trip and he knows how much his mentor has been looking forward to it and –

He gasps for air when his spiraling thoughts become too much to handle.

Point is, he can’t wake up the man just because he’s had a nightmare. He’s not five anymore, running to his aunt and uncle when the demons in his head got too real. He’s sixteen and, more importantly, a superhero he should be able to handle these episodes.

It’s just – It felt so real.

The pictures won’t leave him, they haunt him, taunt him, mock him with chilling voices that make his Spidey sense tingle and the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Shadows chasing him, trying to get his mask, trying to take his most valued possession from him. He won’t let them.

The empty room, the screen, Mister Stark and the kid. Who’s he? Why’s he there?

The girl with the curls, the green- eyed snake.

The mirror.

Paralyzed.

Piano music.

_What?_

The sudden shift in his room is enough for him to rip his eyes open and fall back into reality. His mind stumbles, trying to discern between what’s real and what isn’t but he clings to the soothing sounds. Those were not in his dream, those are real. Real and steady.

There’s something familiar about them, too, he realizes when he forces all conscious thought on the song playing instead of on the bright green eyes in his head. It’s a song Mister Stark always plays when he wants to relax. Something Italian, he thinks.

His senses are dialed up. They always are after a nightmare. It’s why he doesn’t flinch when there’s a soft rap on his door because he has heard his mentor approach, muffled footsteps shuffling closer filed away mentally because they’re not a threat.

“Hey squirt, you up?”

Peter grunts in reply but it’s all the older man needs before he slips into the room and quietly shuts the door behind him.

The room feels different with another person in there with him. The air isn’t as stifling and he doesn’t feel as cold. There’s a different heartbeat and breathing pattern to focus on to take his mind off his own raised vitals.

His mattress moves when the superhero sits down on the bed, joints creaking with the motion, and the teenager scoots over to make room for him. A part of him settles when the other man does.

“Nightmare?” – “Mmph.”

“Panic attack?” – He shakes his head, then changes it to a shrug midway through. “Mmph.”

“Can I touch you?” – “Mmh,” he nods, glad when a hand comes to rest on his sternum heavily, grounding him in the moment.

 _This is real_ , he keeps telling himself. But it’s hard. The thought is slipping away more often than he can hold onto it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” – “Mmph.”

“Should you talk about it?” – “Mmh,” he shrugs. Probably. Maybe? It’s just a dream.

“Was scary,” Peter says eventually, hand reaching out, flailing a little until another takes a hold of it. “Was running and,” he shudders, “Killed a snake. Bit me. Couldn’t move.”

For a moment the soft piano music and their breathings are the only sounds in the room. Mister Stark keeps rubbing soothing circles on his chest, making the panic in there loosen a little. It’s not quite enough for it to completely disappear but it makes it easier to breathe anyway.

When his mentor speaks again, his voice his heavy with emotion he doesn’t have to articulate to be understood. They’re evident in his tones and sub tones and the way he hasn’t stopped the calming motion once.

“But you can move now, right? You’re fine. I’ve got you. I’ll always protect you.”

 _“Not you.”_ The snake said that. But the snake isn’t real whereas Mister Stark is. His body is warm and solid and _here_. The snake is just a figment of his imagination. A very terrifying figment but in his head nonetheless.

“Promise?” His weak whisper is barely audible in the big room but somehow the other man hears it and for the fraction of a second puts more pressure on his chest.

“Always, kid.”

_He’s my kid._

The dream Mister Stark had his arm wrapped around someone else. _Not you, not you, not you._

But his Mister Stark is sitting on his bedside, foregoing his own sleep to talk him down from a nightmare. He cares about Peter.

_Always, kid._

God. Why is this so fucking hard? Why is he always falling back into the warped up dream version of things? Why can’t he stay in the moment? Why is he still scared? Why is he always scared?

“Hey, hey,” Mister Stark’s hand covers his ever so gently, “No pinching yourself till you bleed on my watch again. I promised May, didn’t I?”

_I’ll always protect you. Not you. Always, kid. Not you. I’ve got you. Not you, not you, not you._

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“This isn’t working.”

The words have Peter’s thoughts screeching to a halt. He wants to scream and kick but all that falls from his lips is a pathetic, pleading whimper. Does Mister Stark have enough of babying him all the time? Has his patience finally run thin?

The billionaire pulls his blanket back and him into an upright position, grunting when he has to move Peter’s dead weight because they boy doesn’t help the movement at all. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, just holds him up and wraps a blanket around his shoulders before pushing both of them off the bed and into a standing position.

Somewhere along the way, Peter’s neurons start firing again and he’s almost able to stand on his own feet, thankful that his mentor is keeping a secure arm around his shoulders.

_Always, kid._

He stumbles over his feet a few times before they reach the door but he doesn’t question where they going once. It’s a relief to be moving at all. Anywhere to get away from his bed, away from the nightmares, away from the snake.

“You up for your first lesson in stargazing?”

“Huh?” Peter blinks up tiredly, burrowing deeper into the embrace when the man pulls him impossibly closer.

“Tony,” a different voice – female, Pepper – comes from somewhere – left, hallway to the master bedroom – sounding weirdly muffled in his ears – his head is pressed into Mister Stark’s chest, oh. “You can’t take him to the roof like that!”

They talk for a little after that, although Peter can’t say how long for. He just zaps out after his mind has identified the rough parameters and instead concentrates on Mister Stark’s heartbeat that is much better than the 60bpm piano music because he can feel his chest vibrating with the force of life behind every pulse.

He only looks up blearily when someone wraps another blanket around his shoulders and slips a warm bobble hat on his head.

“Do you need anything else? Jacket? Gloves? Scarf?”

“No, _mom_. We’re all bundled up. We won’t be long anyway.” Mister Stark sounds amused and relaxed. Peter likes it when he sounds like that and his lips curl up in something akin to a smile, too.

“Okay,” Pepper sounds a little stressed but her hands on his cheeks are reassuring and warm when she drops a kiss to his forehead, “Take good care of him and have F.R.I.D.A.Y. call me if you need anything. I love you both.”

Oh. Miss Potts loves him, too? That’s nice, right? It sounds nice. He likes the sound of her voice when she smiles so he whispers a quiet thanks because it feels right and promptly is being pulled tighter by Mister Stark. He must’ve done something right then, he figures.

His tired, shaken thoughts only pick up on their conversation when they’re already in the elevator.

“Stargazing?”

“Yeah, stargazing,” Mister Stark smiles, “It usually helps me focus after a nightmare. Jarvis taught me how to find the North Star when I was a kid and then Rhodey told me some more cool stuff when we met. The consistency of it makes me feel safe even after everything.”

Consistency. That sounds nice, too. He nods in understanding. “North Star ‘s the guidin’ star?”

The elevator stops and they step out on the roof, the chilly December air hitting the parts of him that aren’t covered. It helps wake him up and clears his mind, still he buries himself as deep into the hug with Mister Stark as he can, not wanting to lose the comfort the other man is providing.

“It is, it’ll always lead you back home.”

He squeezes his shoulder as he leads him a little closer to the edge – but not close enough they might fall – and there’s a lot more being said between the lines but they’re both too tired and feeling too raw to say it out loud.

“How do I find it?” he wants to know, craning his head so he can look up at the sky.

As his mentor explains the Big Dipper to him he feels his apathy give way to the buzzing that always accompanies learning something new. It’s just a fraction of the feeling that usually takes over his body but it’s enough to break his mind out of its loop and follow the descriptions and explanations eagerly.

“So if that,” he points to the sky with his hand tightly wrapped into the corner of the blanket, “is Ursa Major then that’s the bowl and –“ he pauses and frowns up at the other man who’s watching him fondly. He’s sure Mister Stark already said it but he can’t remember. “In which direction do I follow the pointers?”

Instead of being annoyed, Mister Stark wraps his hand securely around his wrist and moves him the right way. “In winter you have to go to the left.” He stops the motion when Peter’s index finger is pointing to a bright star above them.

The teenager is barely listening when his mentor is listing where to point in summer, spring and autumn, too transfixed on the brightly shining star that seems to be twinkling down at him, telling him that it would be okay.

_Always, kid._

“Any ideas on how to figure out the latitude once you found Polaris?”

He grins when the answer presents itself easily, a sign of his mind finding its way back to him. It’s trigonometry, simplest math.

“The altitude of it above the horizon should equal the latitude.”

“Pretty cool, right?”

Peter smiles, sinking back into his mentor’s embrace. He’s tired again but not the same tired he was before. This tired is sleepily at peace not exhausted from a nightmare.

“’s very cool,” he mumbles, “’D you ever need ‘t?”

The admission comes hesitantly and quietly. “I did.”

The promise that follows is neither. It’s confident and strong. “I’ll make sure you’ll never do, though. I will always have your back and I will always bring you home.”

 _Home_.

Peter smiles.

Not an empty room and daunting hallway with green-eyed snakes.

 _Home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've got that dream sequence written but I never intented on sharing it here. I'm curious. Did it work without having the actual nightmare played out beforehand? 
> 
> I'm thinking of posting an 'outtakes' chapter once the story is over. What do you say?


	11. Sunday, December 23rd: Christmas Eve excitement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might not be on time tomorrow since I'm trying to reduce stress. Thank you for your lovely comments, enjoy this little thing and have a happy merry christmas <3 x

_There's something about Christmas time, something about Christmas time that makes you wish it was Christmas everyday_

The music plays softly from the speakers in the living room when Tony turns the corner. So softly, in fact, that at first he thinks it’s just in his head. He’s still blinking away the sleep from his eyes but the sight he’s met with makes a smile spread on his lips and it wakes up a part of him that he has come to recognize as parental fondness.

Peter is sitting cross-legged on the couch, wearing a Christmas hat that jingles every time he moves his head and he is clutching a pillow to his chest, resting his chin on it while working on something on his StarkPad in concentration.

He is so deeply immersed in his own world that he doesn’t notice Tony come closer and the fact that his Spidey sense (that’s what he calls it anyway, Tony would’ve named it something much cooler, obviously) isn’t alerting him to the older man’s presence is an unrivalled sign of trust.

It’s weird being granted something this monumental without much fanfare, without a word, hell, without even a second thought. This kid trusts him even though the world has shown him time and time again how fatal that can end. The thought makes him pause for a moment and just watch Peter’s eyes flicker over the screen, blue light reflecting in his eyes, deleting a few lines and retyping them again.

And, for the record, he doesn’t condone sneaking up on your kids for anything because they have a right to have their small little secrets (as hard as it is to let them be) but he wants to see how much he can advance before the teenager realizes he’s not alone anymore.

As it turns out, Peter is really far gone and he catches a glimpse of the title of the document he’s been working on before he looks up.

A _Christmas bucket list._

“Oh, hey Mister Stark.” The kid’s eyes brighten instantly when they meet his and a worry that he didn’t know was there, settles and vanishes, knowing that he is fine, albeit a little more tired than usual.

He smiles up at him without a trace of the horror he has seen on that same face just a few hours earlier and Tony feels himself smile back, the most natural reaction in the world.

_To see the joy in the children's eyes, the way that the old folks smile says that Christmas will never go away_

Maybe he should invite this Bryan Adams guy over for a live concert someday. Maybe Peter would like that.

“Morning squirt,” he greets him with a ruffle of his hair and plops down next to him, enjoying the familiar weight that is being pressed into his side when the teenager leans back, resting against him with a lazy smile. “What are you up to?”

He’s asking lightly, deliberately giving him the option to turn the device away from him shouldn’t he feel comfortable sharing but he doesn’t. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised anymore but he still is.

Peter’s legs come up against his chest and he turns the tablet to show Tony the list without a word.

**_Christmas bucket list_ **

  * _write a letter to Santa Claus_
  * _~~make hot chocolate~~_
  * _~~decorate a Christmas tree~~_
  * _~~build a snowman~~_
  * _~~make a Christmas playlist~~_ _and listen to it all day ~~~~_
  * _~~donate to a good cause~~_
  * _watch Christmas movies in pajamas_
  * _~~wrap presents~~_
  * _~~go ice skating~~_
  * _~~volunteer~~_
  * _make a gingerbread house_
  * _take a family Christmas photo_



 

When he skims over the list the song changes to an old, slow version of Little Drummer Boy and for some reason the combination makes a lump form in his throat.

“Breakfast’s not on the list,” he notes in an attempt to keep the mood casual and not slip into anything heavy just yet. He wants today to be relaxing and nice, enjoying it with Peter who has been looking forward to spending the weekend before Christmas at his place for weeks.

The teenager giggles and turns his head so he’s resting more comfortably on his shoulder. His warm breaths tickle the older man’s neck and, on instinct, his hand comes up to brush away the unruly curls from his forehead.

“That’s ‘cause it’s part of the _Keep The Spider Alive_ \- protocol and you’re in charge of that,” he points out sweetly, scrunching up his nose adorably when his hair tickles him, “so I’m not worried, ya know?”

Oh, he knows. It doesn’t make dealing with the utter and unconditional trust he puts him in any easier, though.

“Pancakes?”

“Duh. I’m starving.”

Peter slips off the couch and dumps the tablet on the coffee table before skittering over to the kitchen, radiating a ridiculous abundance of energy considering Tony hasn’t even had coffee yet. Somehow that’s okay. Somehow, when it’s Peter talking his ear off, he takes it in stride and even finds himself enjoying someone else’s voice in his head for once.

_I have no gift to bring pa rum pum pum pum, that's fit to give our king pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum_

He follows after him and together they get to work on preparing breakfast. While Peter sets the table for two, telling him all about May’s dinner plans for Tuesday he flips the pancakes and lets the bacon sizzle in the pan, enjoying the simplicity of it all.

“When will Miss Potts be back?” Peter asks as they sit down and he’s already helping himself to his first serving.

Tony watches fondly how the kid piles more and more pancakes on his stack and pours a truckload maple syrup on top before getting his own food and replying, “Sometime around five maybe. I think they’re supposed to be at the spa at around three. Why? Are you worried it’ll get boring with just me keeping you company?”

Truth be told, he is a little worried about that himself.

They spent most of yesterday in the lab and, when they reemerged Pepper was there, coaxing them into playing a few board games until it was time for bed. But Peter has declared today a Christmassy day and the superhero has little to no point of reference for how those look or what he’s supposed to do to make something Christmassy. Why did he think this was a good idea again?

“Nah,” the teenager mumbles through a mouthful of bacon, “Just gotta plan ahead. I was thinking of scheduling the movie watching for the evening anyway, I bet Miss Potts would like to join.”

Tony grins and, as always, it’s ridiculously easy to fall back into the familiar pattern. “Oh we’re scheduling things now? Do tell what else we’re getting up to today.”

“Well,” declares the Spiderling seriously, pushing away his plate to rest his elbows on the table and then rest his head on his folded hands, “we’re starting off with writing a letter to Santa Claus because I totally forgot to do that all month and it’s _unacceptable_.”

The way he says it, so honestly appalled by the gross oversight on his part, makes the billionaire relax into the moment a bit more. This is still Peter and he might not know how to handle Christmas but he has gotten pretty good at handling the teenage vigilante.

His entire being is radiating sincerity and his big brown eyes are bright with excitement when Tony meets his gaze. It’s hard to deny him anything when he’s like this – happy and enthusiastic. So, as a general rule, he doesn’t even try to. Which might not be the best advice parenting- wise but, damn it, it’s Christmas, right? Don’t people do that on Christmas?

“Are we gonna send it to the gift factory, too?” he asks because what does he have to lose? His dignity? Not fucking likely.

Peter looks at him as if he’s grown a third head which is, frankly, insulting but he tries not to let it worry him too much. “No, Mister Stark,” he says eventually and he actually has the audacity to roll his eyes at his mentor. “We’re not writing wishes. That’d be way too late anyway. Where would he get our presents on a Sunday?”

That is obviously the biggest question in Tony’s mind right now, as well. Where would the Great Santa Claus get the presents that are quite obviously already hidden under the tree on a _Sunday_ of all days?

“No, we’re just gonna write him to thank him for all the good things that have happened so far.”

How does this much pure goodness even get channeled into a single person, Tony wonders for the umpteenth time.

“Of course, what else would we write about,” he agrees solemnly, fondness shining through the hint of irony, as he gives a nod of his head and watches Peter beam back at him. “So what are we doing after writing our letters?”

The plan is rather simple, really. They’re going to build a gingerbread house and listen to Christmas songs and _sing along to them_ and after that spend their evening cuddled up on the couch to watch Christmas movies until they fall asleep.

“I’m not singing, though,” he tells me straight away, “I don’t know any Christmas songs anyway.”

“Awh, Mister Stark, I’ll teach you.”

Incidentally that is what he ends up writing his letter to Santa Claus about – Peter teaching him the lyrics to Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree.

It’s hilarious, watching the kid genius try to get the notes just right and, for the life of him, not quite managing to. He’s got troubles with the melody and the rhythm, too, and the longer Tony listens, the fuzzier he starts to feel.

Only when he pulls him aside and upstairs to the grand piano and starts playing the notes of the song from a sheet F.R.I.D.A.Y. pulled from the internet – a lot more professionally than Peter’s sad attempt at humming the melody if he might say so – does he go quiet.

In his letter he writes about how thankful he is for this idiot of a kid that hangs on to his every word, whether he’s talking about a particle accelerator, a recipe or teaching him how to play Jingle Bells on the piano.

(And he might make sure the letter mysteriously ends up in said kid’s room at the end of the day because Tony Stark can’t talk emotions but delivery errors do occur and Peter deserves to read it more than some mythical creature anyway.)

As expected the gingerbread-house building ends in a fairly serious catastrophe.

Flour, raw dough and icing are covering almost every open surface of the kitchen when they’re done but seeing how proud the kid is of their engineering skills (not like Tony is an engineer or anything) is worth all the cleaning up they have to do afterwards.

When Pepper gets back, all rosy cheeks and relaxed posture, and the teenager is ambushing her with a hug, high on sugar and Christmas and covered in various backing ingredients, he revels in how normal she reacts to it, how she pulls him closer, presses a kiss to his temple and inquires about his day.

Now, with his fiancée cuddled into one side and his kid buried in the other and the opening of It’s A Wonderful Life playing on the screen in a dark room only illuminated by their Christmas tree, Tony’s heart is almost bursting with gratefulness.

He can’t really put it into words and he doubts that any letter to some guy on a North Pole is ever going to be enough, but he tries to show them anyway when he pulls them closer and tells them he loves them.

It’s enough for now. It’s what he thinks Christmas is probably about; love and family.


	12. Monday, December 24th: gift giving

The days leading up to Christmas have been a bit of a mess with ups and downs and more emotions one Tony Stark can usually handle at a time. What they didn’t know, though, is that the real mess is what they encounter on Christmas.

Their Christmas is five family’s Christmas traditions crammed into one single day and then some.

It’s loud arguments about what is considered a Christmas carol and what is just a song and why one is worth more than the other – or is it?

It’s jabs and not-so-thinly veiled insults during charade and a Stark-Parker victory dance once it’s over.

It’s too much food, personalized Christmas hats and guessing gifts before unwrapping them.

It’s the most beautiful Christmas any of them have had in a while.

 

The mood on Christmas morning is probably best described as ambivalent.

The obvious excitement over their plans is clashing with a feeling of uncertainty and tentativeness. The hesitancy in fully embracing this new step that might very well morph into a new tradition is palpable in the lingering-a-little-longer-than-necessary kiss Pepper presses to Tony’s cheek when she rolls over in bed and in the tighter-than-usual good morning hug the billionaire wakes Peter up with.

It’s still there when they file into the kitchen for breakfast one after the other after getting ready, more anxious about their interaction than they were the night before and moving more slowly, scared to be the one to break the spirit and ruin the day.

That is until Peter tries to move out of the way of Pepper taking the eggs out of the fridge a little too hastily and ends up stumbling and almost hitting the kitchen counter in disorientation hadn’t Tony pulled him away and flush against his chest.

For a moment none of them makes a sound, holding breaths and biting tongues.

Pepper is blinking, tired brain still catching up with what just happened, Tony’s heart is racing as he wraps his arms around the kid more tightly and Peter’s cheeks are flush with embarrassment but he makes no move to leave his mentor’s embrace.

“Ya know,” the teenager’s voice drifts through the room, a little breathless, a little muffled into a Black Sabbath t-shirt, “As much as I love morning cuddles, it’s kinda getting hard to breathe in here.”

Almost instantly the veil of reluctance is being lifted as if Peter’s words are the key they’ve all been waiting for, the signal they need to get back to the version of normal they have worked so hard to obtain.

Relief is flooding the room when Tony barks out a laugh and pushes the Spiderling away, dark eyes twinkling with fondness as he cards his hand through the mess of curls and says, “Menace,” in the tenderest voice he owns. Peter beams at the endearment.

After that the rest of the morning passes in a flurry of activity.

Last minute adjustments are made to decorations, clothes and food preparations, the last plans are finalized and rechecked and, in the midst of it all, two handful cookies find their way into a certain teenager’s hands (and, consequently, into his mouth).

 

“May just called. Happy and her need another fifteen minutes. They’re stuck in traffic,” Peter yells from the ceiling, where he’s adjusting another string of fairy lights, to Tony who’s in the middle of setting up the Christmas crib, a big ceramic version of the nativity scene that his mom got from his grandmother for his first Christmas.

The billionaire nods absentmindedly as he pulls out the Christ Child from the box ever so tentatively. His mind is someplace else, curiously tiptoeing around the edges of a trauma he has not yet overcome. “Hey Pete, think you were ever this small?”

The teenager looks down at what he’s holding, still dangling from above head first and, taking only a second to identify the nostalgic-close-to-sad look on his mentor’s face, quickly quips, “Nah, I was born this grown-up and sticky.”

Just like that, Tony’s features brighten and he shakes his head at his mess of a kid as he snarks back, chest a little lighter, stance more at ease.

They do this a lot nowadays – figuring out each other’s triggers and where their mind is currently at, quickly intervening before they would start spiraling into the vicious cycle they both know too well.

 

“Hey Tones, I got the pie where do you want me to put it?”

“Rhodey-bear,” Tony grins up from the floor where he’s sitting proudly in front of the now finished crib and holds a hand out for his friend to pull him up with, “I thought we were celebrating Christmas not Thanksgiving.”

He pats down his casual denim for any dust and lint but takes the offered pie anyway, leading the newcomer into the festively decorated kitchen courtesy of Pepper. Over his shoulder he calls out, “Pete, make sure to get down, you know how your brain feels when it gets too much blood from your upside-down-shenanigans.”

Rhodey laughs, eyes twinkling with mirth at the matter-of-fact way of the exchange. “How long’s he been hanging like that?”

“About 21 and half a minute, give or take,” Tony replies promptly, glaring at the other man when he starts cackling, “You try taking care of the superkid and then come talk to me again.”

“It’s not like you let anyone else take care of your superkid, Tony,” an amused voice tunes in from behind the open fridge door. A strawberry- red shock of hair is peeking out to the side, a lively contrast to the metallic gray surface.

“Really, Pep? You too?” He sighs dramatically, putting the pie down on the counter that’s already stacked with a variety of delicacies such as roast duck, dumplings, pasta, Christmas cookies and all ingredients for hot chocolate because, apparently, there’s no Christmas without hot chocolate and Tony is quite obviously not able to decline Peter Parker anything.

Pepper is about to reply – something classy but hurtful, most likely – when a high-pitched squeal and loud _thump_ from the living room makes them whirl around, bodies on high alert as their minds immediately wander to all worst possible scenarios. That is, until they can make out the Parker family greeting somewhere in the odd cacophony of noises.

“You brought the hats!” Peter is screeching excitedly and from how his voice is faint and out of breath they can guess he’s still in his aunt’s embrace like the human octopus that he is. “Mister Stark, Mister Rhodey, Miss Potts! You gotta see this!”

‘ _This’_ turns out to be personalized Santa hats. Everyone gets one.

“This one’s for Miss Potts.” The teenager hands out the red and white hats, reading the stitched names out loud with so much childlike joy that no one can decline putting it on right away. Not even Happy who looks ridiculous, glaring sourly at them with his ‘Happy’ Santa hat on or Rhodey who hasn’t stopped laughing about his ‘Mister Rhodey’ hat.

Tony wears his hat with a sense of pride.

He knows that it’s a Parker family tradition and he knows how much it hurt Peter the first time he only had to pull out two hats instead of three. Now there are six Santas walking around, going about their business in getting everything ready and when the billionaire catches the kid watching them all a little wistfully he rubs his neck and pats his head, pushing the hat down until its covering his eyes.

The move earns him an upset shout but also a thank you, hidden in a bump of shoulders and a tentative smile.

 _You’re welcome_ , he beams back without words and says, “We’re a team for charade, right? Gotta make use of all those inside jokes.”

“’Course, Mister Stark, we’ll be a great team.”

And they are. They are essentially unbeatable teamed up with May and every attempt at victory from Pepper, Happy and Rhodey is quickly over turned by yet another immaculate performance because that’s just how they roll.

Most importantly, though, it’s a game that doesn’t have heavy memories and loss clinging to it. It’s a game, full of laughter and ease and not-taking-yourself-too-seriously. They make fools out of themselves, entirely at peace in each other’s company and it’s a relief, really, to do something that doesn’t require deep thought during a time when seemingly everything has to mean something.

This doesn’t mean anything and that’s why it means the world to them.

 

It’s May who makes them watch Christmas mass on TV.

They’re all sitting close together, spread over two couches, limbs overlapping and fitting together like six parts of a whole. Like various pieces of the same puzzle. Like a family coming together for the holiday.

May has her feet curled up underneath her, one hand holding a pillow that rests on her stomach, the other rubbing random patterns on Peter’s legs that are stretched out in her lap. The teenager’s head is safely tucked under Tony’s chin who has his legs stretched out on a cushioned stool in front of him. The arm that is not carding through Peter’s curls is hanging loosely around Pepper’s shoulder, caressing her arms every once in a while.

Pepper lays sprawled out on two couches, back resting against her fiancé and head propped up on his shoulder with her legs coming up on the next couch’s armrest, resting on Rhodey’s thighs who has his legs stretched out on the same stool as Tony. Happy sits next to him, upper body propped up on the other arm rest and feet resting in the other man’s lap as well.

It looks ridiculously domestic the way they’re sprawled out in the living room, halfway laying on top each other but no one comments on it, no one dares to poke fun at it, everyone too happy in their respective positions.

Tony’s hand pauses its carding motions in Peter’s hair when the priest starts his sermon speaking of stars, specifically the star of Bethlehem.

It’s a guiding star, he says, that lead the Kings of East and nearby shepherds to an unremarkable stable to find something exceptional. A king, a savior, God.

They’re both thinking of a different guiding star, a different destination but no less extraordinary. Somehow, without much understanding for the spiritual or much trust in a higher power, they find themselves and their own long-winded way _home_ in the story.

Peter wipes a tear from the corner of his eye with a barely disguised sniff and buries deeper into his mentor’s side. Like clockwork Tony’s arm wraps around him more tightly, grounding him in a silent ‘ _I know, me too.’_

 

The mood lifts tremendously when Happy, Santa hat sitting slightly crooked on his head, insists on singing carols before exchanging gifts and Peter, lo and behold, gets Tony to accompany them on the piano.

Everyone’s clutching their mugs with steaming hot chocolate, in quiet awe of the soft piano music trailing through the room. Only until they start singing, though, six people managing to find at least five different keys to sing in, and doing so loudly and convinced and horribly askew.

The laughter that follows is freeing after the emotional sermon and it takes the edge off once more before they start moving over to the tree – presents already stacked neatly underneath.

“Oh no,” Rhodey stops them before anyone can rip open their gift, “You gotta guess first.” Apparently that’s a thing now, too.

 

“Uh – it’s from Tony, right?” Pepper asks rhetorically upon finding her name in neat handwriting pushed into the top left corner, weighing the slim rectangular package in her hands, “It’s probably either some new tech or jewelry and –“ she meets the billionaire’s eyes briefly, biting her lower lip before declaring, “I’m gonna go with jewelry probably fitting something I already have.”

“Nice guess, honey, but there’s more,” Tony grins when she rips it open to find a beautiful box with a necklace perfectly fitting the sparkling engagement ring on her hand. There’s a small slip in the box, too, that she unfolds with a frown.

“Dinner reservations for January?” she laughs, the jab waiting on the tip of her tongue disappearing and morphing into something softer when she reads on. “In New Haven?”

“I know you don’t see your family that often,” her fiancé admits rather sheepishly, hands fidgeting in his lap, “And, the last few weeks have taught me how important family and appreciating them while you can is. So, I’d like to take you to Connecticut for a long weekend if you’re up for it.”

Pepper smiles up at him, tear shimmering in her eyes when her gaze briefly finds Peter who’s sitting on the floor like all of them, back propped up against the couch and legs resting comfortably in May’s lap, before settling on Tony. “Thank you,” she says earnestly and then, more quietly, “I love you.”

“You are all a bunch of big saps,” Rhodey laughs good-heartedly before shoving two packages onto May and Tony. “Open mine. You’re getting the same thing because you’re both in dire need of it.”

Both parents roll their eyes in unison.

“So it’s something to do with cooking then,” Tony states matter-of-factly, hands running over the edges of the package as if it could tell him anything at all. Rhodey nods, rubbing his hands together like a child on, well, _Christmas_ , and waits for May’s input.

“It’s probably not any kind of utensil, right? Mmh, I’m going with ingredient of some sort,” she guesses.

Sure enough, they get a seasoning pack so “The Super-Kid can get something for his enhanced taste buds” with only a slight difference in their two packages.

Tony frowns, “You got me marjoram but not pepper?” – “Eh, I figured you already got your Pepper.” – “Hilarious, platypus. I’m falling over in laughter.”

Happy gets a cookbook, because Rhodey visited a whooping single shop shopping for presents, his very own personalized sports car from Tony and Pepper and a voucher to make him his favorite pie from May. He’s overly excited over the pie, leaving Tony to sulk into his hot chocolate for a good three minutes.

Pepper gets a girls spa day, a frying pan (“If need be it’s a great weapon against stupid fiancés I’ve been told” – “Rhodey, you’re uninvited from every Christmas ever to come in this household.” – “Awh, Tony, but it’s a great pan, don’t you think?” – “Sure, Pep, whatever you say. Did I mention I love you?”) and a diary that is apparently exactly the one she always gets, though how Happy figured that out Tony has no idea.

“Rhodey’s not getting presents because he’s being a little f –“ he stares at Peter, eyes wide as if he just realized there’s a child present, panicked, “- fairy. He’s being a little fairy.”

Peter is cackling. “Awh, but Mister Stark,” he giggles, “We all know you got him tickets for –“

“A- a- a,” he stops the teenager with a hand on his mouth, “Nope. He’s not getting those until he’s apologized.”

“It’s tickets to Elton John’s Farewell Tour, isn’t it?” – “How…?” – “Come on, Tones, I literally taught you how to tie your shoelaces.” – “Fine, be that way, but I got us the VIP lounge. And also front row groupie tickets so you can feel young again for once.”

On top of that Rhodey gets a self-knitted scarf and hat (“I have never in my life owned anything this warm. I’m never taking them off ever again.”), a cookbook (“At least it’s not the same one, Hogan, that woulda been embarrassing.”) and two new sci-fi novels.

When it’s May’s turn to open Pepper’s and Tony’s present she regards the man with a long searching look.

“I swear I was only marginally involved. All my original ideas were vetoed,” the billionaire raises his hands innocently, “I just lent my expertise to –“

She looks at him over the rim of an artfully manufactured glass. “Wine glasses. You got me wine glasses?”

Tony grins. “And wine, don’t forget the wine. I think that was actually more expensive. We spent like an hour choosing the perfect one.” Then, more seriously and a little unsure, “Do you like it?”

That puts a smile on the woman’s face and she nods at both of them. “I really do. Thank you. Guess we’ll be drinking wine from new fancy glasses tomorrow!”

Happy’s present to her is a milk frother which Peter claims almost immediately (“Honestly, thank you but what do you think my kitchen looks like?” – “At least you didn’t get a pan, May.”) and when Peter hands her his, she beams at him, pressing a kiss to his forehead before even starting to unwrap the flat parcel.

It’s a DIY- calendar with pictures from the past year just like the one he gets her every year. Only this time in March an image of Spider-Man swinging through Downtown has snuck its way in there and in August there’s one from the annual Science Fair, featuring a certain eccentric billionaire, looking into the camera with an uncharacteristically soft smile.

There’s a silent understanding in the look they’re sharing that the following year would feature some more people. People who’re currently talking across one another with their Santa hats on and fingers sticky from the hot chocolate that is not the one Uncle Ben used to make.

 _Okay?_ ask Peter’s eyes – _Perfect_ , says May’s smile.

 

“Nu-uh, Peter goes first,” Tony tries to object when the next present is shoved into his chest but somehow they have all silently agreed to leave the kid’s presents for last and so he doesn’t have much of a choice but weigh the unshapely package in his hands.

“I have no clue what that’s supposed to be,” he frowns in displeasure. He hates not knowing with a passion. “Something soft, pretty big, a little squishy and a weird ass shape. What the hell, May?” The woman in question simply shrugs and grins innocently. “Okay, final guess: a weirdly shaped body pillow.”

It is, in fact, not a weirdly shaped body pillow but a huge stuffed lioness looking a lot like the one they saw on their trip to the Christmas market last week.

He remembers how they walked past the booth with the stuffed animals and how Peter pointed out his favorites and he remembers staring at the lioness a little longer than the rest and apparently, without knowing the back story, May figured out that it would be his Christmas present.

“It was my mum’s favorite animal,” he tells her, clearing his throat and patting the toy’s head in an attempt to not get too emotional. What he wants to tell her is that she shouldn’t have spent so much money on him and that Peter is probably going to be cuddling with it a lot more than he is. He wants to say that he doesn’t need presents when he’s got friends – no, family – like this but he doesn’t because he can see how excited she is, how excited they all are.

So, Tony Stark does something unprecedented and accepts the gift.

“Thank you,” he says, leaning over to wrap May into a hug, and he whispers only for her and the enhanced teenager to hear, “for everything. I’m glad to be able to call you my family.”

Happy gets him a pajama (“I’ve been wanting to get him those for years but he’s never accepted gifts before. I’m tired of having to bully you out of bed in your underwear, boss.”) and Pepper a potted plant for the lab which feels a little anticlimactic to everyone else but puts a huge smile on Tony’s face who sheepishly informs them of his never-lived-out-love for gardening.

“Now yours, kiddo. I know you’ve been trying to hide from my watchful gaze ever since we started this kindergarten.” His voice is casual but his eyes are softly inquiring.

Peter looks embarrassed, clutching the parcel Rhodey has seen him put underneath the tree a few days ago tightly to his chest. “Yeah, but, uh –“ he breaks off because he’s not sure exactly what he’s scared of.

He looks past Tony and meets Rhodey’s eyes who’s leaning against the couch and gives him a reassuring nod.

Without further ado he pushes the present into the billionaire’s waiting arms and then scrambles a few feet away, hugging his knees to his chest anxiously. He thinks Tony is going to start unwrapping right away but he doesn’t even deign to look at the gift, his eyes solely focused on Peter, a tiny frown sitting between his eyebrows.

Gently he puts the package down and leans forward, elbows coming to rest on his thighs, never breaking eye contact. “I don’t have to open it here or at all if you don’t feel comfortable with it.”

“No, no,” he’s quickly to deny, picking it up again and handing it back to the older man, grateful when no one interrupts them, “I am, I am. I’m just – uh, just open it, please. You’ll never guess it anyway.” It’s a challenge and a safe path to the shore.

“Oh?” There’s a mischievous glint in Tony’s eyes as he takes the present and starts squishing it thoughtfully, mind going a mile a minute.

“Some kind of fabric,” he settles on finally, “And because it’s pretty big I’m guessing it’s something warm so it’s either a blanket, a jacket or one of those blanket scarfs but, mmh –“ He observes the kid for a good minute. “I’m going with blanket.”

With that he rips the neatly wrapped thing open and finds –

“Well, it is fabric and it is something warm.”

“Do you like it?”

“Like it?” He laughs, grin ridiculously wide on his face. “I love it. I’m putting it on if you are, too.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Tony’s smiles tenderly when he throws him one of the hoodies. “Can’t be an Iron Dad without my Spider Son, am I right guys?”

Happy, Pepper and Rhodey are toppling over in good-hearted laughter while May tries to take a reasonable picture of the pair. (It’s definitely going on the shortlist for next year’s calendar.)

Peter is tucked into Tony’s side like he always is nowadays, his Santa hat slightly askew and covering his left eye, he’s grinning sheepishly. His mentor, on the other hand, is beaming at the camera, proudly wearing both his ‘Mister Stark’ Santa hat and his brand new ‘Iron Dad’ hoodie that’s matching Peter’s ‘Spider Son’ one complete with arc reactor and spider web on both of them.

“Thank you, kiddo,” he tells him quietly when May is satisfied with the picture she has taken and shows everyone else. “This is my new favorite hoodie.”

“It’s your only hoodie, Mister Stark,” the kid points out not unkindly, cheeks flushed with the warmth of the room and the hoodie and the feared embarrassment. “But I’m glad you liked it.”

“Love it,” he corrects gently and reaches out to ruffle his hair in habit but only manages to shift the hat so it’s covering half his face. He laughs. “Almost as much as I love you.”

“So you’d call it menace, too?” Peter quips but buries his face into Tony’s neck in a tight hug. “I love you, too, Mister Stark.”

“Alright, Mister Parent, sir”, Rhodey breaks them up, “We’re all very excited about your newfound parenthood but I’ve been looking forward to Peter’s presents all evening.”

The teenager grins brightly when a relatively big box is shoved into his chest but pouts when he has to let go of his mentor to unwrap it. May’s behind him, though, rubbing his shoulder blades so he relaxes into the touch of his other parental figure happily.

“Let me guess, you got me a value pack of spatulas.” – “Eh, give me some credit, it’s a little bit cooler.” – “Oh my god! You got me an ice cream maker? May, look! Can we make ice cream tomorrow?”

Happy’s present to him is a new pair of Bluetooth headphones (“I should be annoyed that you’re just giving me these so I don’t talk to you as much but they’re really cool so I’m going to thank you.”) and Pepper’s is an Astrology Guide for beginners complete with self-luminous celestial map. She winks at Tony over the mess of curls when Peter barrels into her in a hug.

“It’s a backpack,” Peter declares before even putting a hand on May’s present to him and, sure enough, he’s right. It’s a bright red backpack adorned with various iron-ons but mostly they’re of Spider-Man and Iron-Man shooting across the sky together. The teenager beams as he sails into his aunt’s waiting arms.

“I haven’t lost one in at least half a year!” he tells her proudly to which she just shrugs and presses a kiss to his temple. “I’m sure that means the next one is due soon.”

“So, Mister Stark, what’d you get me?” Peter asks rhetorically, weighing the last present in his hands carefully. It’s a small, plain rectangular parcel and relatively light. “Some tech?”

Tony shrugs non-commitedly, arms crossed in front of his chest, “Before you open it I’d like to say that I had much cooler ideas but Rhodey said that’s  wrong so I’m going to blame it on him. Unless you like it, in which case this was all my idea.”

“Sooo,” Peter cocks his head to the side, “Sappy tech?”

Which is honestly the best description for the digital photo frame he’s getting.

It’s powered by a tiny version of his own arc reactor in the left corner of the frame that illuminates the whole thing in a pleasantly blue light not unlike the one the superhero gives out himself when he’s wearing his nanotech. He knows there are days that Peter has trouble falling asleep in the dark so, besides being a reminder of how loved he is it also works as a night light for harsh nights.

“Like it?”

Peter nods but doesn’t look up, eyes glued to the series of pictures flickering past them.

It’s a callback to the last few weeks that they’ve spent with each other, figuring out how to celebrate the feast of love in a world full of tragic and loss. They’re just pictures but they tell a story of how broken people can come together, damaged fragments fitting together to make a new whole without forgetting where they came from.

A picture of their blanket fort follows a long shot of the living room. The room is dark, the lights from outside the only source of light and Tony has wrapped a mask-less Spider-Man into a dark green blanket. They’re both asleep but Tony’s hand is still in Peter’s hair and he looks like he’s guarding the teenager even in his sleep.

There’s a photo of the hot cocoa that Peter spilled on the coffee table, of their improvised snow ball fight arena and one with May, all of them bundled up and nursing their steaming mugs of punch. Behind them the Christmas market is alight with the Christmas spirit and it’s reflecting in their eyes, too.

Peter laughs quietly at the one of him wearing the Iron-Man suit, face plate retracted, showing off his face splitting grin as he presents the star he’s about to deposit on top of the tree.

It follows a picture of Rhodey and him, sat in the same exact space they’re currently all huddled together in, talking and looking down at the two hoodies still wrapped in the red and blue wrapping paper Peter has chosen.

There’s an image of their snowman on its own, a selfie of all three of them together, at least five different ones from the ice skating rink and a literal ton of pictures from yesterday alone. They’re cute, hilarious, ridiculously and cavity-inducingly sweet.

They’re not even halfway through all of them when Peter wraps his mentor into another bone crushing hug and pulls everyone else into it, too. They stay like this, huddled together in a group hug for almost twenty minutes until the slide show starts anew.

The pictures tell a story. Their story.

It’s a story of hope and love and family.

It’s the story of Tony Stark and Peter Parker and the first Christmas that wasn’t all that bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made it! Who would've guessed? (not me!)   
> This fic was a lot of fun for me to write and it definitely helped me get into the Christmas spirit this year.
> 
> Thank you for tagging along for the ride! Especially if you've ever taken the time to comment and brighten my Christmas time. I'm a little behind on replying but I'll get to it tomorrow probably. You guys are the best <3
> 
> Have a Happy New Year!   
> Josi


	13. Outtakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure why I told you I'd post these in the first place but I kind of want to show you that this exists in the story without ever really being out there? Idk.   
> There's two outtakes (about 1k each) and I tried to explain where they're coming from in front of each. I hope you enjoy this, keep in mind it's not really finished posting material but I always like reading/seeing this kind of stuff that happens behind the scenes.
> 
> Oh, and thank you all so much for your comments. This Christmas fic was a true joy for me to do, especially when I got to read everything you had to say about it. Hope y'all had a great start to the new year! x

**Thursday, December 20th: snowflake hair**

_This is a like a different version for the snowman building part that just didn’t want to work. It felt like I was trying too hard to make it meaningful and then switching back to it being really easygoing and it just wouldn’t go anywhere. There are a few things in there, though, that I liked, so I thought I’d post it. (This actually ended in the middle of a sentence because I always stop writing in the middle of sentences somehow, so I just bullshitted something to make a final period, honestly.)_

-

“Hey Mister Stark,” he calls out, smile a little wider than before with a warm feeling in the center of his chest. “You want me to pick up your snowball to put it on top of mine?”

He has already made it to the spot they had chosen for their snowman in advance and watches his mentor still roll his ball around, meticulously patting the fairly big snowball every few meters to keep access snow from falling off.

“Gimme a sec,” comes the reply in a quiet rumble, “According to my calculations the ball should have the perfect size by the time I get to you. But you can pick it up from there.”

Peter nods and pats his own snowball a little, too, so it could be a match for his middle counterpart. “Hey Mister Stark,” he then asks because the man seems distracted enough, “What are you getting me for Christmas?”

There’s a pause and it’s almost enough to have him hope for an actual answer. A lot of times Mister Stark would speak before thinking when his mind is busy on other projects and these moments of weakness are the only time for Peter to get anything out of him that he doesn’t want him to know. Suffice to say he has quickly become a master of asking the important questions at the most random times.

“Nothing because you’re an ungrateful brat,” he calls back, though, and Peter sticks out his tongue at him.

Doesn’t mean he’d have to stop trying now. “I’m guessing it’s not clothes, right? Because you just got me clothes.”

“Why? Did you get me clothes?” Mister Stark laughs rolling his snowball over and leaving it ins Peter’s care while he picks up another batch of snow, already forming the next one.

The teenager picks up the heavy ball that weighs next to nothing in his hands but does make it hard not to get his head get stuck in the snow seeing as it’s huge. “What if I did?”

Mister Stark watches him intently for a couple of seconds before deciding, “You didn’t. But I really did like the wrapping paper, so even if it’s just another gift made entirely out of webbing, at least I have some beautiful wrapping paper to with it. Might even save it for next year.”

Peter frowns as he catches the small ball his mentor throws at him and starts rolling it. “Please tell me you’re not one of those people who takes ages to unwrap their package and then reuses it afterwards. Because my grandma always did that and I hate it.

“My mum used to do that. Probably to draw out the gift giving to annoy me because, shockingly enough, I have never been known for my patience.”

The admission comes light and easy and it’s almost weird how not awkwardly Mister Stark says it. Normally, everything to do with his mother is said in an almost reverent whisper as if to not taint the treasured memories. This, though, is just a side fact thrown into a conversation for the heck of it.

Peter knows he only let it slip because he feels at ease and relaxed and, for some reason, trusts him and it makes his heart grow a few sizes. “Well,” he mockingly considers for a bit, “if you do that we cannot celebrate Christmas together. I will not let you made me wait.”

“You wound me,” the older man grins, hand resting over his heart in mock hurt but eyes glistening with fondness. “What am I supposed to tell Rhodey and Happy now? They were so excited when I told them you were coming over on Monday. And your aunt was delighted at the prospect of not having to cook.”

“Wait!” He stops working for a second, “We’re coming over for Christmas? That’s actually a thing you talked about with Aunt May? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ignoring Peter’s scandalized expression completely, he walks over to pick up the finished snowball to put it on top, pressing and turning until it wouldn’t fall off again.

“Tada.”

“One,” Peter starts, unimpressed, “That snowman is not even close to being finished and two, don’t ignore my question.”

When Mister Stark only creases his forehead in confusion he bends down with a sigh and starts picking up snow to pack between the sections. “See? That’s so it looks more uniform and not just like three separate snowballs stacked on top of each other.”

“Fine.” The other man joins him in giving their snowman a proper shape. “It was supposed to be a surprise, by the way. Your aunt wanted to have something up her sleeve should you fall into one of your moods again before Christmas.”

“That – that’s nice,” he stutters, “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

He put so much effort into making everyone else think he’s okay when he’s not that it still feels weird when people see behind the façade so easily. 

“Please,” his mentor scoffs but his hand comes to rest in the middle of Peter’s shoulder blades in a silent ‘I’m here’. “Now, how about a face?”

“I’ve got his nose.” Peter bites his lip, hunting for the carrot he had picked up from Tony’s rooms when the man had gotten ready and presents it with a final whoop. “And I think instead of eyes we should give him one of your sunglasses since we don’t have pebbles or charcoal here and uh – I’m not sure about the mouth.”

 “He can have my scarf,” Mister Stark says offhandedly, already taking the piece of clothing from his neck and handing Peter the spare sunglasses he seems to be keeping in the inside pocket of his coat. “Can’t have our snowman be dressed in anything less than Tom Ford and Cartier, right?”

“Mister Stark?” Peter stares up at the man, wide eyes following his smooth movements in wrapping the scarf around the snowman. “How much do these cost?”

“Together? Eh, about one and a half grand?”

“Wha –“

“Peter!”

But it’s too late. The boy has already run the older man over and keeps throwing snow into his face, all the while laughing almost maniacally.

“You.” Throw. “Can’t.” Another batch of snow. “Give.” He rolls over, protecting his face from an attack. "A snowman.” He splutters, gasping through the snow in his face. “Thousand dollars.”

The attacks stop then but when he has blinked away the snow in his eyes and he can see Mister Stark again, he falls right back into the snow, face bright red with the cold and he’s grinning up at his mentor through his icy lashes.

 

* * *

 

 

**Saturday, December 22nd: bundling up**

_This is the dream Peter woke up from before they went star gazing. I wanted to write it down so I would know how to reference it when he’s up again and I actually did some research on dream interpretation so if you want – feel free to tell me what you think all of this means!_

-

He feels the bile rise up in his throat, blinking away the tears when the acid tears through his esophagus but he can’t stop. He won’t. They’re behind him.

He’s too scared to turn around to check if they’re still there. He just keeps running, feet hitting the pavement so hard some of the topping breaks and the tiny stones splash in every direction, including his calf. It hurts. It’s bleeding, he feels the warm substance run down his leg and he almost slips on it when he turns a corner.

There’s a house, a mansion. He’s running towards it without a second thought. He just wants to be safe.

 _Safesafesafe_. What does that feel like? He’s not sure he remembers.

His hands clutch his backpack to his chest. They can’t have it. They won’t. They would have to kill him for it.

Finally, he’s in the house but the first two rooms are full of water and he almost slips when he opens them. Another one is spitting fire and the fourth houses a three-headed-monster that goes for his head before he pushes the door closed.

There’s only one door left, at the very end of the corridor. The door is slightly ajar and he doesn’t waste any time, just sprints towards it, not caring how he scrapes his shoulder on the solid wood when he hits it.

It’s empty.

There’s nothing in the room but he doesn’t consider turning around. He has to stay here and stay _safe_. They won’t get him in here.

With shaky hands and uneven breaths he pulls out the nickel-titanium alloy mask from his backpack and gently sets it on his lap, fingers stroking over the cool metal carefully, delicately. (It’s not really nitinol. He just likes to pretend it is.)

They’re safe. _Safesafesafe_.

Suddenly all walls in the room flicker and come to life to show a news clip. A hord of reporters is shoving their microphones and cameras into Tony Stark’s face and he grimaces in sympathy. Cold anger is boiling in his stomach at the sight of them crowding his mentor, his superhero and, once more, he feels the bile rise and this time he spits it out.

That’s when someone else appears on the scream and for the first time there’s a sound to the recording.

“Mister Stark, who is that with you?” “Mister Stark what are you saying to people claiming that he is your son?” “Mister Stark, who would you consider your brightest intern?” “Mister Stark we heard he’s not –“

Tony Stark turns around, sunglasses off and arm slung lazily around a young boy, his spitting image.

“I’d tell them that they are absolutely right. He is my son. He’s the brightest boy I have ever met, I mean he’s gotta, ya know? He’s my kid.”

_My kid, my kid, my kid, my kid_

Something in Peter crumbles at the words and when he looks down at his lap, the mask he’s been clinging to for so long, the thing he has tried to protect from the shadows chasing him – it’s gone. Vanished.

And the screens keep playing Mister Stark gushing about his kid. He’s smiling brightly, not a hint of sadness, not a hint of trauma. Just, happiness because he has his kid.

Before the conscious part of his brain can form a command, his legs are already moving and he’s bolting out of the room once more. Back into the daunting corridor with the many doors that hide his worst fears.

There’s a little girl sitting in a corner that wasn’t there before. She’s curled in on herself, trying to hide her head in her knees. Her shoulders are shaking and when she looks up and meets Peter’s eyes, the fear in her eyes is a direct link to his own heart beating too fast in his chest.

He moves towards her, blocking her from the snake that’s slowly slithering towards her without a thought. He needs to protect her. If she doesn’t survive, he won’t either – it’s a fact he feels to be true in his very core.

When he looks up at the snake, ready to fire a web at it, he pauses for a split second.

Green eyes are staring right into his soul and he hears its voice in his head.

“Not you,” it hisses over and over and over again.

_Not me, not me, not m-_

The snake has gotten into his head and the tiny moment it has gained is enough for it to lunge forward and sink its teeth into Peter’s arms before he strangles her.

The lifeless reptile falls to the floor with a loud thud that barely registers with him.

He’s looking for the little girl but she’s gone. In her place is a mirror and when he looks at it – he finds green eyes staring back at him but he can’t reach out to smash the glass. He can’t do anything anymore. His arms are sticking to his body, his face a stiff grimace of fear.

He’s paralyzed. And terrified.


End file.
